Mud
there is the absurd question of semantics
left
to wrestle with
limbs so lifeless
heavy tree branches
gnarly natural monsters
difficult wrestling
left
absurd to wrestle with the question of what is left
there
nude or naked in the muddied interpretations
of ideologies, communist/democratic/polka
never powerful enough
to make a difference
bruised/battered/left to
lose form
or strengthen
or be difficult to distinguish
from any other abstraction
whereever you are
the world loves ideas because
the world is mostly mud
up to my eyebrows in mud
until there is no difference
between them and us
between skin and sin
between right and
left
it is a question of the powerful enough
an old man carries groceries
too heavy to lift without help
without help
a burden
or a purpose
or just groceries
perhaps a ripe avocado
two tomatoes, sliced swiss cheese
blueberries, on sale, a pear, mud
baggage a worn heart drags along
alone with the question
claw at the shadows of the puppets
squint with precision at illusion
piss in the pool of shared imagination
belittle fools who would believe
in a world of words
that mean something more
the world is mud
you will get dirty here
you will be burdened
you will be bruised
you will
hide your shadow self in whatever
is easy to
kill/cleanse/murder/help
there is the absurd question of semantics left
wrestle the lifeless, heart dragging,
polkadotted mud left
there is the effort
to mean something more
or mean something less
to answer in absurd ways
or complete silence
talk yourself out of it
your poetry
like a savior
to a mind
which thought
no other
understood
a way to write
thoughts in stanzas.
reads in hunger
the letters entwined
in stems of understandment
with appreciation
of your words
i can truthfully
say i admire
your poetry.