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A poet's code

In this dank room in some corner of this lumbering, tottering megalopolis, it smells of old books and cigarette smoke. Laughter and coffee waft in from three stories below. The buzz of life and the occasional whine of the aging elevator intrudes into this prison cell. Memories lie scattered across the room. 

A poet leaves behind many such markers. Unique. Immutable. Eternal.

Strands of poetry are like genetic code. Phrases. Lines. Verses. You can tell who the poet was. The still unwashed cup. You can tell who the poet was. A soft, tattered blanket. A frail pair of spectacles. Even that angled sliver of cold winter morning sunlight shining on the dulled and calloused pen. You can tell who the poet was.

Like a careful typographer arranging the letters on a composing stick, the poet crafts his cadences. Point and counterpoint, the music of the verses sways and lilts. Sometimes lunges, sometimes lurches, fumbles or falls. Sometimes it stammers, stutters. And then bubbles back into effervescent joy. You can tell who the poet was.

Did the cat warm his feet here? Was the cactus even greener? Did the gramophone always play this same dusty song? Did red neons blink 50 years ago? Did geckos observe the flight of moths? Did the poet watch the geckos? Could passers-by on late night streets hear the lines of text crash upon the shores?

Did crumbling walls and fading paint dim the city lights? Did tumbling words mute mortal voices? Did the chrysalis of propaganda metamorphose into verse? Was it the craft of the poet? Or the uncontrolled oscillations of a churning civilization?

In this hollow room with a view looking inside.
 

 

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