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Poem
Prelude to what…..

I see you,  /  you / yes, come into my…… 
laboratory of alchemist mystical languaging.
where arsenic spills into the whirlpool of thought 
and savage syntax shatter like glass on concrete.

Where Titans clash their pens
both spear and shield
signifier and signified in eternal dance.

What truths lie hidden in
the battle's tolling roll call.
Just what secrets do these conflicts yield to
The death of their author.

The heart bleeds blue and black ink.
watch as the mind screams suppressed in a hyperreal silence.
each drop a universe of unspoken pain.

(marginalia: Is this poem writing itself? Or are we writing it together
            dear reader our souls intertwined in this literary labyrinth?)

This poem is not here.....
You are not reading this???
The author is dead!!!!
Long live the text  /  
a rising falcon from the fog-enshrouded
mountain of 
lost.....intent.....

Enter the picturesque scene--Hemingway / Fitzgerald / Faulkner.....

State what is your Nature of Reality ~

We enter a smoke-filled Parisian café    time  t I c k s    s l o w  I n g
giants three of prose locked in partisan war
funny their Twitter feuds / would have broken / 
the internet    a digital Colosseum of words

scarred by trenches    Hemingway his pain shows
brutal, life's truth needs no metaphor; for you see
I write.    I am bleeding.    It's  u n  i   f    o     r      m.
his ice-berg theory floats in a sea of minimalist prose.
sentences each a scar.    each period.  a bullet ~ lodged in memory.

jazz age's golden boy  / Fitzgerald /  famed for flappers    feuds with friends
But deep in the  night,    green light still gleams
Your spare prose misses the dream's importance;
different are the rich:    adjectives four-dimensional they have
words shimmer like his vintage champagne bubbles    
effervescent yet,  bittersweet

Faulkner haunted / hunted by Southern Ghosts breathlessly adds
words winding his river flowing endlessly weight baring carrying
generations of sins unspoken and dreams unfulfilled / meandering ~
through the kudzu-choked landscape of memory and regret
chaos in beauty and meaning bloom
Like magnolias in the mist of breaking dawn
sound and fury  he's   signifying everything
choiring voices    each chant a life    a history    a sorrow

Is reality dark stark    
                   or a tangled poison vine.....
Do we carve paths    
                or lose ourselves in thickets divine T+
The truth ~ a chameleon    changing with each blink of the mind's eye???

feel as the whiskey burns    The typewriter clicks    The past never dies
each keystroke a heartbeat    each sip a memory    f a  d   i   n     g

Hemingway's ice-berg theory collides, crashes,  with Fitzgerald's green-light sight
and Faulkner's stream in a whiskey-soaked sea of literary might
The acrid smoke of Gauloises mingles with whiskey breath
as egos large as their royalty checks are small clash in logomachy
A battlefield of words    where ink flows like blood and ideas are the spoils of war

(Marginalia: Friends turned rivals    their words eternal light
            This stanza deconstructs itself as you read
            Watch as the letters rearrange    a provocative literary meaning)

Step forward Ms. Woolf and Mr. Bennett 

Tell me of the Female Experience or lack thereof...

room    a sanctuary   Virginia   in     deep contemplation
Where stream of consciousness can flow  f r  e    e  l  y
The yellow wallpaper peels, revealing layers of self
                                                                     of woman.....
                                                     of writer....
                                   of human...

A reveling tribulation of identity    each layer a world unto itself

world of  Bennett's externals    tightly wrought
Clashes with her  inner   reality / her thoughts
His characters trapped in amber    beautiful but static

You paint the virulent shell,    she cries,    quill in hand
But miss the pearl of great price / that   lies within
The lighthouse beam sweeps 'cross the sand
Illuminating what  has  existed   always  been
once overlooked.....
Her words a tide    washing away the sand castles of convention

He scowls  / scoffs dismissively    Your musings? Castles built on sand
Structure Ms. Woolf is where true tales began
A proper story neat and planned
Is how the reader's heart we win
His pen a mason's trowel    building walls that both protect and confine

In   this end times  of  literary minds    a larger war:
Who defines what a woman's voice is     her .. very .. core.....
The battlefield: the blank page    the stakes: the soul itself

The clock strikes   The pen scratches   Time passes    
A room of one's own fills with   unspoken   truths
Each tick a revolution    
each scratch a declaration of independence

W 
O    O
O      L
L        F
F      O
O    R
M
S

This section shapes itself into a lighthouse    guiding readers through the storm of words

Feel the beam of insight cutting through the fog of prejudice

When the page decides to turn with the wind 
a new chapter arises with part 2
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