Tennessee Fried Poetry

Tennessee Fried Poetry                  July 6, 2004 (Revised October 12, 2013)

Languid, on the couch, amid my bloc,

Placing pen to Modernity's papyrus,

The imagination well, now barren, 

As dry as a long-dead bone, rotten.

All I can muster are a few scratches,

Incoherent; so naturally laconic,

And thy soul perishes, drifts oblivioni,

And I shall dance with Nihilism

Till the Seven Trumpets sound
Upon the dawn of our Rapture.

The Seven Trumpets are to sound,

As I have felt free-fallen, a tryst
Between the idyllic pen, unsheathed,

And his muse, the metaphorical

Characteristic of an Egypt long past.

A poet and a historian? Who am I to ask,

When each tick begets a conception of life?

Who am I to thee? What, pray tell you?

Who am I? Need my spirit bleed?

My lover, tho' transparent, is present,
Rolling 'tween me and the air we breathe,

An amorous encounter 'tween pen and pad,

My bloc, delay'd tho' it may have been,

Hath now come 'round in full.

Some ask me my style, you see?

Lo'! I live amid the mounts of Tennessee:

My home sweet home, and precious,

And as a poet, may I never again 

Experience this inevitable duplicity,

This Tennessee Fried Poetry.