Blind Spot

Blind Spot
(04/19/2004)

Poetry comes from the blind spot.
It isn't read, but sensed.
It can't be predicted, controlled, directed.
It can't be corrected -- there are no mistakes.
It lives in revisions
of flickering visions,
skipping and dancing,
wiggling, laughing, giggling, lagging
and racing ahead -- sometimes even escaping
itself!

But lasso the leader and wrestle a glimpse.
Look, look away, and hope that you saw it.
Offer a play-by-play glance to the reader
but don't overwrite it
and don't try to think it.
It's rough-draft-sketchy,
then clearer and clearer,
what's there in the mirror.
Medusa? Miss Piggy?
Who's giving reflection? --
a personal question
that only you can answer.

Don't filter, just flow...
Flow with the music
within you, without you.
There's no you, just vessel -- just muscle -- a reading, writing, typing machine,
transcribing what's seen
in the blind spot
inside of your echoing head.