It is my way to make the cruel blade laugh,
to entertain the heavy knuckled fist.
I tried too long to tuck myself away,
to be the one that nobody would miss.

And? No fist thrown towards me ever did.
But silence only deepens for so long,
it is a sea that has a fathomed depth.
So I raised a storm of stories and of song

and threw down bolts of just-a-tale among
the fists and blades, and wrap about their necks
a drunken arm. A jolly joking lip
drools bonhomie along their poisoned backs.

And no one misses me -- just like before.
Nobody misses what they've never known.
They glad to see the shriveled limerick,
the hollow-echo-laughter of my bones.

Reduce yourself into a silent stone:
An angry hand will hurl you at its hate.
But silent stones! It still is not too late!
Reduce yourself into a plot device!


Trapunto said...

This warrants comment without invting it. l hope it's not out of place to say I really wonder what you've been reading . . . or whose been telling you their stories.

Jason Gignac said...

That's an interesting question - I've hardly spoken to anyone for weeks, really, short of work things. And I've had almost no time to read - though I did just finish listening to Mists of Avalon. I'm not sure thats inspiring, short of perhaps the trite quality of the last stanza, which I'm not entirely pleased with.