On With The Show

I could write a thousand poems,
waste a lot of time focused on the show,
never utter things kept secret.
See the tree?
Ordinary meanings are vague and squishy
like boiled cabbage.
Mustard seeds, dark sparrows,
madmen rolling naked in ashes--
their shadows curse me.
Resist not evil, even the gates of Hell.
Shooting stars, dying suns,
words don't belong to anyone.
Whirling leaves, strings of beads,
foolish fantasies and savage dreams--
patterns that repeat in time
spawn sestinas and pantoums.
Have you seen the elephant?
You wake up in the morning,
the self you made,
and you are still you,
watching and reacting to nothing real.