Fiction
If it is conceived by the mind,
sanctioned by the heart,
it’s not fiction, a measure
of the real in every storied work.
Above me is a shelf-full having outlived
their authors, many their civilizations
along with their gods. There are not fictions!
Instead, transitory dimensions of being --
journeys limited only by one’s dragging
imagination --
I will consign a heaven where poets are
royalty; seated on thrones surrounded by
fawning fans. We autograph their copies as
they wipe our profuse brows, having laboriously
bleed one’s soul into the pages. Wherever
they are future carried and read, we are also there,
spirit cursing through Time’s Lyric Arteries….
The ancient Mariner!
That raging infernal!
Am I not the saga of my parent’s love,
each a manufacture of our God?
There is no fiction after the fact.
And woe to you, critics and editors,
savage murders of my fond text!
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