Poem a Day 8

Today’s prompt is a doodle poem. Whether we will it or no, it must be written, for is this not April?

The Margin

Among the morgellons and madder blogs
The theory’s broached of government control
Aeolus-like of all our wind and weather
So that the very cloud shapes, on your back
Perceived in so-called pleasant daydream, are
The masked, occluded messages of masked
Occluded forces speaking from the sky.

Wile I am not a fearful man, stockaded
Behind some tinfoil curtains, paralyzed
By GMOs or dreams of anal probes —
I still recall the friendly social worker
Whose flashcards’ random ink stains plainly showed
Like postcards scenes deliberate and clear.
The margins of my notebooks, there beside

Equations destined soon to break the world,
Throng with a blue parade of spiraled shapes
I thought were random — start up, ancient pen!
But as I gaze into their whirlwind heart
The intersections that I see explain
In such a clear and pleasant voice, the word
I had not yet lit on. The world awaits.


Doodles by Kierkegaard

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