Dig Them Pomes
Published in
1 min readFeb 13, 2018
These fragments I have shored against my ruins.
Poetry is the
archeology of
consciousness,
the pot-shards
and middens
of a life
whose true
experience
can barely
be imagined.
Remnants of mind
left behind.
When you read it
you discover
scattered pieces,
not the original
arrangement.
You try to wonder
them back together,
but can’t quite.
When you write it,
you leave clues
for scientists
yet to arrive
who will never
fully understand
who you were,
what it was you
meant to say,
which is OK
because you
never did either.
If you like this piece, and can afford it, please dribble a few coins into the starving singer’s cup.
Life is but a dream… Rent is reality.
