Time Suck

Alright, so I'm writing a book, right?
And this book is pure joy, fun, first and foremost,
for myself, which is, by my logic, yourself.
I would ask you what your logic is, but

this is a poem, of a sort, and what
would be the point of asking you anything
unless I wanted to answer it for myself?
and so that's what I'll do, illogically, sing

a question, instead of answering
a question yet unsung, which is a question
of mechanics. You want to know about this
no? Like for instance, see that "sing"

at the end of stanza two? It is there
to rhyme with "thing", as another word
might do if the rhythm had not lead
to a better verb, to sing.

That's what I'm doing
and see how the "sing" at the end of stanza two
leaps out into the blank space between
stanzas? That space is called the caesura

because that is what it is, the pregnant
seizure in which the song can breathe
in silence before she is sung again, the bated pause
just before the full throttle song in which the lark

will leave her "forever" mark upon Keats,
the master in all things counter. Opposites
attract, silence and song, which is why
Shakespeare will say "Truth and beauty buried be."

That is why, though I am dead, seriously,
the joke is on me, and I laugh at me,
a jester hung out to dry, a foolish son
who will try in vain to defeat the ruinous fall.

That's a sly reference to Dante in hell,
where all is judged and recorded and fair-
thee-well. I'm more li'ble to inhale the draw
and take it for a long preamble.

I mean near forever, drawing the pleasle
out until it is a sinuous release of worklessness
and disuse, the disease of the most horrible drivel
to ever reprimand itself for early predisposal.

I'm getting ahead of myself, and therefore maybe
you too? Or maybe you are light years ahead of I,
comprehension-wise. I hope not though, because
then why read another line? Why not pause

at that last caesura and pop yourself, Pip?
We've got Mrs. Haversham for debacle and we
have miles to slow before we wake. Oh yeah,
the work. I have so much work to do. I keep

forgetting, and postponing the difficult yet
very real work! So I will do that now, having to beg
your indulgence, sir madam. It has been a pleasure
to know you, if only in the biblical sense.

On a lark's wing, that "sing" way back there flung off into
that pause and then landed in the third stanza as "a question".
That is part of the answer to your riddle, Sun,
the answer to the question of what is being sung.

So why ruin it with any dark? Because ruin is our redemption,
said the great critic, the booming Herold of the Bloom.
And so what if that critic hates it! Bring on the truth
soon, because soon, in truth, I lose my youth.

Oh my bod, in that last pauwth I got wet.
I'm such a queen bee in the buzz of my own mind,
and therefore have fallen way behind on the thing
of it, the weight of it, the thing that weighs the most.

There goes the ghost. After a long break to refresh
my brink of dismissal, my dismal failure will be made dead,
brought to you by the letter D, which we shall see
has purpose in repose heretofore unleashed.

Donne be damned for his wit,
we sing for the hell of it.