scientific method

the world has learned to suppress their thoughts,

quell their emotions in a way that they do not allow

the eager, ready train, to ever leave the station.

one learns to focus focus focus

and to discourage the flight of fantasy

no, that quetzal must remain extinct in the jungle.

the mind is a compact tuber, born boring and thick

over time we carve it, and the tuber grows

it can grow high, and cast a long shadow

or it can flatten out into a pancake

a worthless two dimensional floppy saucer.

when one writes poetry, or at least when i do

somehow, i naturally encourage my mind to unravel

i even push it, eagerly waiting to see the intricate henna it will paint

i pursue every haphazard thought

every ridiculous idea, i believe and stand by it

and each interruption, i embrace

for it will affect the outcome in its own way.

each poem i write is a ball of yarn i toss with all my might

it might bounce off a paint-chipped wall 

or roll aimlessly in spherical eights

i might kick it towards the stairs and observe it tangle up

gleefully i witness the chaos,

the confused uncertainty

and then it comes to rest.

still as a deathly dawn.

and there i have my product.

-Pamplemousse