Zeus and Hades know better than to witt-box with me,
My kind wrote their kinds into existence, archival mythology.
What is that there without the likes of scribes? Without those who sneeze prose abstractly on pallets of processed bark poles… Really?!
No you don’t!
Ra and Osiris couldn’t flex against my scripts of writs,
Illuminated Ones and Caesar too… shit.
This was handed down from chisel, to stick, to chalk, to dyes and pigments, to charcoal, to lead!
Authors like I used to be stoned to death, laying heads and necks to final rest on the guillotines’ chests.
Directed sessions with 4D talented artists,
Chief magistrates of temples like Artemis.
Our indentured services to humanity.
Noble lies and the least gladiators pissed on us all, similar fates for the musicians,
But no one recalls their barbaric names to memory; the irony!
Our words fracture cameras apertures and dissolve bedrock unearthing Stonehenges.
Carving stories into deities,
Placing seismic syllables silently onto the stratosphere’s tongue.
Don’t you see the auroras,
When the pen plops and plots particular proportions of protons produce products and probabilities from possibilities of partial premonitions authoritatively in literacy.
The great Colosseum/ Coliseum
“My very soul thy gradeur, gloom and glory”
I don’t recognize your history, not without that of Edgar Allan Poe.
You’ll no longer hear the echoed tales of Anicius Maximus but we’ll know of Homer and Sappho.
Assume your prominent position, applaud the print that was Aristotle…
It ends with Hemingway,
Articulate the accuracy of Emerson and Hardy it is the T.S Eliot and Faulkners of today.
French kissing rhyme schemes so deeply identifying with the Anatole in me; not the Magnons or Celtics, Napoleon or Philippe.
Miracles of oral regard us as oracles,
Wizardry over stanzas and soliloquy unlike the Hercules and Eros before Langston, Mo Yan and Amiri.
Cheer the chariots but please don’t ever again dismiss us poets as harlots.
Photo credit to: http://m.flickr.com/#/photos/88432238@N04/8758303621/