Imagination, not reason. #68

This world, the one between ears,
where we jump from wax to corn
and from fields high and green
to feet trapped in shoes, rubbing
until the irritant, pearl
woven from grains of sand, world
where what is a thing quickly
morphs into whatever next
one can imagine, irritant
that is a seed which gestates
and escapes, takes a meaning
of its own for itself, world
where the obvious logic
leads us down dead end alleys,
bowling, or sitting with friends
naming one, two, three TV
shows, wired storytellers.

How long could one play this game?
Call out duckling, deer, turkey,
cry foul and shift inside
the white lines, play left field.
Is it fair, someone will ask,
to toy with our connections,
let go of blocks that rise up,
only, at time for supper
to be torn down, demolished?
Could this odd tomfoolery
be tolerated? Silly
goose, gander at your craft, boat
launched from imagination’s
pier, no friend to rationale,
to Aristotle’s dictum.
He sits here now, molesting
his wonderful fallacy.

Your advice has been taken
to account, down to the bank
by the river and flung in,
where we will hop the next bus,
train ourselves to pirouette
like frogs throwing ourselves on
the mercy of the court, net
ourselves a fetching mate, judge
our successes by defeats,
bow down to spot dust bunnies,
scratch behind the floppy ears
of man best friend. The puppy
love is nothing in light of
the treats, and of course, the chow.
What was it you said, Master,
that man is a rational
animal? Well, poppycock.

I say imagination.
Let logic be a willing
slave to what could be. Let ring
the bells of matrimony
and wrestling, patronize
both me and my art, painting
me into a corner, draw
your conclusions, your weapons,
allow your forethought to kiss
my aft. Hidden here, along
these cave walls are not edicts
to the wise and well thought of,
not trumpets to subjects
and kings. No, these are the kids
come home from the hunt, cooking
up dinner and a tale
spun to captivated kin.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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