Tuesday, June 7, 2011

-Baffled-

What am I?
What am I not?
On vacations on balconies
in the company of wine
and strangers
questions are asked
rapidly
bullets flying one after
the other
People skip particulars
and leave the manners
at the bottom of
the Bordeaux,
without pacing
without pause
they ask the personal
in fluent gibberish,
On these occasions I
tend to stare
like I'm looking out at a foggy
beach.

"who are you?"
Bizarre and both naive,
a question aimed
to baffle me
Of the little I know
Of the little I don't.
I have only ever assumed,
ever gotten but the jest
of who I am.

But of course I am a poet
or maybe I have been,
maybe I lived like one
but was I ever one within?
Is a poet a type of person?
Is a person a type of poet?
Maybe mice write ballads
or honeybees blank verse
who is who?
And what is what?
I can be the proverbial sky
and wake up a baboon
aren't we all connected?
The vino speaks before
my words can reach my
lips
i am never one thing at a time
or in one place in a moment
strangers now with their
mouths wide open
I baffle them unwillingly.

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