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Here wood-shedding in the cave,
my mind seems to have gone into
an eerie state of suspended animation;
leaving words sitting around and chatting
as if they were in an induced drunken stupor.
When aroused, they seem to rise up
and hop onto a lexical merry-go-round;
or just sit there screaming as if in a dangling
seat of a stalled fairish wheel jammed in mid-air.
Being poetically comatose is a revelation
of the vacuous nature of spiritless weaving of words
void of purpose—whorl pooling emptiness
sinking deeper into illusionary nothingness.
Pregnant poetic minds do not just exist; rather, they are
living realities of the fertilization of fertile wordings
anchored in endometrial contemplative cognitive growth.
The poem is not merely a mental ejaculation; rather
it’s the result of spiritual incubation in the mind’s womb
and when the Supreme Creator deems so, it is delivered:
The she-shed and man-cave are mere waiting rooms.
