Common Knowledge November 29, 2o15

I don't  know my poetry anymore. I don't know if any of it is well written enough for people other than myself to understand it, identify with it, find something new to consider. Self doubt. Am I being too literary, too little, too cliché? I guess it doesn't matter that much. What does matter is . . . do I get it? Honestly I don't know. But here's another one. Hope there's something here to "get."

Common Knowledge

 

I could tell you about darkness,

how it blocks out the entire world
with just a blink of its enormous eye.

 

I could tell you about— but you already know, right?

You understand the empty, the void, you hear
the shadows rubbing up against each other,
against the walls of the small, uncomfortable  
apartment you pretend to live within.

 

You’ve listened, and more than just one night ,

you’ve listened to the whispers murmured
by the neighbor’s rat hunting  cat,
between the minutes, the hours,
the blistered bang of midnight.

 

Drunken frat boys lurking behind

the Campus Corner Market, urinating on
the parking lot fence, singing songs
they never quite know the lyrics to.
Howling songs heads leaning back,
eyes rolled upwards focused on a black sky,
a dead sky that could care less one way or other
who lives or dies on this little piece of dried-up sand.

 

I could tell you all about the darkness

the many headed creatures living there—
but you already know, don’t you?
Woodie 11-29-15