Monday, December 27, 2010

Death of a Poet By Jasen Sousa

Death of a Poet


Last night I killed a poet.
Before I let him take
his last breath I tortured
him like only another poet could.

My mentor let me into his house
as usual. We said hello,
he staggered to quiet
the tea pot.

As he handed me a cup
and saucer, shaking,
I punched him in the face,
sending the poet to the ground,
out cold.

I unzipped my backpack
and took out tape and rope,
I placed them on his couch.
I picked up his limp body,
snuggled him into the chair
in the living room
near the fireplace.

While his shoulder held
his head, I duct taped
his mouth and tied his hands
and feet with rope.

I went into his bedroom
where he kept his notebooks
full of poems and great first lines.
The elderly man did
not store anything electronically,
I proceeded demonically.

He taught me how poetry
was supposed to look,
how great poets used form
and meter in their books.

He constrained my freedom
as a writer, as a human being.
His gray hair moved in front
of the fire like a solar eclipse.

There was nothing to say.

I threw his manuscripts,
some whole notebooks,
some page by page,
into the flames
as I watched canals develop
inside immodest wrinkles.




Taken From
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa (Written During Emerson College Era)
©

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