I’ve wondered at the flavor,
at the tastes of hidden things
I have licked the air to savor scents
unknown – from palate, wings.
I’ve dipped my thumb in The Thick Of It
and stuffed it in my cheek
and held it there till it dissolved—
tobacco, so to speak.
I’ve bit into unbitables:
like loss and cost and death.
The tang of loves unreal and gone
as my monastic breath
reminds this old saltlicking stag
(whose senses ever gray)
that tastes behind the tastes exist —
stagehands behind our play.
I’m waiting here till every food
tastes equally of dust,
then all those tastes behind the tastes
will bloom and make me blush.
about the 54 poems written at 27 ::
After much deliberation, I decided to keep the whole tradition of doubling my age and writing that many poems in a year. You’ll notice that April Thirtyish has already passed, so I’m late in posting. I’ve gotten about half of them written and will begin posting this week.
I started this whole mess with 46 poems written at 23, most of which are still up on the site and many of which are awful. Those poems I wrote because I read somewhere that the best age for poetry is 23. I was turning 24 and had an existential crisis.
Then I got over it.
Suddenly I was 25 and thought, “Why not do it again?” So I doubled my age and wrote 50 poems at 25. Again, most of these are still on the site and I’m proud of one or two of them.
Now I’m twenty-eight and it’s almost a principle, almost an undeniable fact of life. When the wild Lancelot is in his native habitat and his age is in an odd year, he will be secreting poetry. I do this because poetry is important, because we must take an active role in the creation of new language or else our language dies.
That means I must write, I must learn how to create better poems even if I’m awful at it — everyone must because the fate of our culture’s at stake. For me, this year, that’s 54 poems at 27.
So I’ll schedule these suckers out and give it a go. Follow along with the category 54 @ 27.
cover image by bestiary