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44ARTHUR'S CONFESSION

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  • (no author)
    Apr 1, 2001
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      ARTHUR'S CONFESSION


      MY POEMS, sad to say, have
      folded their wings.


      YET AS GALILEO, another victim of torture & dehumanization, always kept
      telling his tormentors, "Even so, [the earth] keeps moving!", so also do
      I tell you...
      (In my case, "they" [my poems] keep moving!)


      INCAUTIOUS AS I AM, I have deliberately kept IN the preceding inspired
      segment, & J--- has immediately picked up on it!


      J---, THE MOST BARBARIC... the most sadistic of the Big Guy's goon
      squad--
      & at this very moment he is hustling off to drop the info secretly into
      his boss's lap!


      TO ADD INSULT TO INJURY, this monstrous excuse for a human being is
      passing this poem round-robin among all his loathsome sidekicks!


      ONLY YESTERDAY, the Big Guy buzzes me into his office, but I keep cool &
      confident.


      THAT LAST REMAINING red hair on his forehead is darting about nervously
      like a lightning-bolt, as his eyes coldly & emotionlessly gaze upon me
      from the cushions of fat surrounding them.


      HIS GARGANTUAN NOSE is all aquiver, he mushmouths something like
      "OREMUS" while licking his thumb to turn a couple of pages. Next he
      produces a filthy, creased bit of paper, &...


      O MAMA MARIE, MOTHER MILD!!! HE IS EATING MY POEM!


      HE IS LOBBING A GOB OF SPIT ONTO MY ROSE!


      POSING as a moron, a hick, just so he can pollute & rape my virgin-pure
      verses!


      HE STAMMERS on purpose as he reads, drawing out each syllable
      hatefully...


      MY LEGS GIVE OUT... I find myself down on my knees, whimpering... & then
      he continues:


      "J--- HAS VERIFIED in this report to me that your attitude on the work
      floor is taking a turn for the worse-- each day you are sitting with
      your legs further & further apart, & J--- has fully documented frequent
      occasions when you've been observed sprawled out full-length underneath
      your desk, assuming a posture identical to that of young gangstas who
      have totally lost control!"


      "NO USE DENYING IT... the facts are right here!" [...]


      NOW HE SLIDES his hand onto my shoulder & around my neck, & his eyes
      betray his intense interest as I am pressured to explicitly describe my
      leg-spreading, etc.-- it's totally nauseating, & I know exactly where
      he's going with all this...


      I HAVE BEEN SPIED UPON...
      my emotional reactions made into sleaze, my secret self degraded, & I am
      allowed to say NOTHING about it, since the Big Guy has instigated &
      approved the whole thing personally!


      AND HERE I AM right on his home-turf being debased by this filthy old
      lech!
      [...]


      I JUST DON'T GIVE A SHIT anymore about this loud world & the deafening
      work floor.


      I'VE GOT NOTHING IN COMMON with those seated near me, slackers & bores.


      EVERY HEAD, every morning, groggy from sleep-deprivation, slumps on the
      desk before it.


      SNORING SOUNDS, like Last Judgment trumpets, ascend slow & stifled above
      this global Gethsemane.


      I... I ALONE, unflinching & blissful, am rising vertically, high beyond
      these zombie companions, like a sprouting palmtree that breaks free
      through the floor of a ruin.


      SETTING MYSELF APART from discordant noises & odors, I lean my head on
      my hand & listen... my heart is beating, still beating...


      THROUGH THE UPPERMOST WINDOWPANE my eyes soar into the sky's azure!


      ____________________________________
      --excerpted & adapted from the 16-year-old poet's COEUR SOUS UNE SOUTANE
      (1871)
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