dis poem, in honor of unstable poets

Written by: Woodrow Lucas


Dis poem is in honor of manic mistresses who war against the fleeting flesh,
Yo, dis poem is honor of schizophrenic Don Quixotes, swingin' at windmills of panic
stricken consciousness,
Yo Dis poem,
Yo Dis poem is honor of maestro's chasin' the muse of the logos made flesh,
In words, the only comfort they possibly know,
Flowing in a reverie of ecstatic epiphany,
Caressing solace, defeating the alienation of solitude,

The man sat staring at the fractured scatterings of a generation that had forsaken kindness,
And the woman saw him, and outstretched her hand, but the agent of chaos grabbed her,
Purpose, he said, purpose,
And the angels wept,

Yo, genius shining through the tears of fear made real,
Reeling, peeling, away layers of miraculous fish feeding thousands,
Miraculous words, healing a generation,

Begging Christ for a moment's rest,
From the war that wages within,

Men sing songs of triumph,
But courage is when your very mind won't have you,
And your heart, mocks you with its mercurial caprice,

Genius shining through hilarious and cacophonous laughter,
Outraged and astounded,
Dumbfounded and incredulous,
At how no one can feel this,
Pain that seems so salient,

Raging seas of foaming mouths in ascetic white rooms of institutionalized slavery,
Thieves profiting on the sound of crying children,
Praying, wishing that their parents would piece together the puzzle of sanity,
And rest in the greenhouse of sanctuary,

But God won't have it.
For this suffering is but a moment's mist,
In the calculus of eternity,
And in the end, a tree of inspiration,
Emerges from the relentless voices,
And the world knows healing!