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 A Courthouse Named Empathy (Nov. 3, 2013) |
Transcription
Johnny E. Mahaffey
January 25, 2017
The Novelist Portent
REPLY ID: ugx3
To Jayamaysullyuniversity,
I was given a letter through the mailroom decreeing my poethood.
My artship. I read it twice. A third. Refraining the fourth,
to avoid egocentric smughood.
All through the holiday(s) I've been lost in the fog(s)
of depression/reality. Disillusionment.
But, this ruling from outside renewed fire definitive.
Now, I sit on this metal chair/desk/kitchenette/ladder to my
top bunk--typing. Typing. Always typing.
This time, however, I write with new vigor; purpose.
Hate/bias/ignorance awash over everything around me,
and blame...so much blame.
It is through knowledge, with knowledge, that I step above those
accepting such socializations.
Each stanza inked in protest, typed--converted to pixel
--and back to through, but through another cognitive music
and perception
The stigma escaped. The classification deemed faulty.
The poet/artist regarded on common footing, commensurate.
I spent the morning just being, awake inside the illusion.
I spent the afternoon staring at the inequitable environs.
I spend this afternoon typing loudly in equilibrium!
And before I climb the ladder to my top bunk/kitchenette/desk/chair,
I know A Friend Who Loves Beautiful Art.
M
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