All Art Is In The Poet

There is no stack

Or layered guard,

No sentinel

Over this craft.

There is only

The hand

Of the neurotic,

And the feelings.

This expression

Is expressed,

Like some lactic substance

As a means of nurturing.

It provides.

This craft puts away

All of the plenty art

Of the crayon creation years,

And executes the hard

Sore chiseling of granite.

Chased onto the page

The work is provoked out of me.

It is as task which takes its toll.

I am a lumberjacks apprentice

Hi jacked by fibrous languages,

Cut to my quick by a penknife.

And what I have taken

I use to convince.

I hone my wares instinctively.

I simply state the obvious.

I crash course my judgement

Into the regimented flat lines

Of insightful description.

These are the thoughts

I once expressed by pallet knife,

Long ago in my truthful days.

I disgorge all of life’s velvet

By the slight of hand to head.

My earthy challenge is

By breath after breath

To illustrate and describe.

This impulse isn’t witness led

Or layered as a confession.

It is a narrow narrative

Of a living sentence,

A caged lexicon, a web.

C 2018. Christopher Thompson.