cHoke me with a good pOem

Art succumbs to loose ends mechanized to counter the better option and secure the knot. Colors and shapes adorn patterns that discover balance, knot secured. But the tie off is a solo experience, dangling requires assistance, physical instruction (body language) and verbal commands. It’s a Pendulum allegiance to no-one, which comprehends what’s in the middle. 

Poets write their instructions, intending oratory expression to aid them in distribution. 

Mediums for messaging are ripe for exploitation. 

Mirror neurons insist a reader is capable of writing an epic poem. They lead with this confidence, compose verse and declare against hollow breaths, “I am a poet.” 

Capitalist instincts permit the verse to be used for monetary gain, promoting competition by default. Where rank and file is concerned, there must be a system in place to place a person into their corresponding category. 

Self praise rationalizes the victory spoils. 

TV preachers acquire jets.

Poets are awarded with a good time and place to announce their words. Headline title representing the top prize and a room glutted with little wiggle room to stretch one’s arms, or tie one’s shoes. 

Warrior slave hugged his knees like an 8 month fetus. His love handles offered a crutch for the gladiator standing above him to leverage their balance. The gladiator confused sunshine for their golden helmet. Emperor shadows gave the thumbs down. 

A poet enters the bodega. They travel the aisles and happen upon a shelf labeled, “discount items.” Behind them a dairy freezer chills their elbows, but the cold escapes flesh as the poet’s arms lengthen to grab an expired box of saltine crackers from off the ledge. They hide the box inside their purse, turn about face and leave the store in a haste. 

“Someday,” they think. “I will write about this moment.”

Published by akcola

AK Cola is a pop-culture war veteran.

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