The Poet Lies

The poet concocted a masterpiece today
In which the trees whispered their secrets and the lady on the side of the road had a melancholy air brought on only by memories hurled at her by the rapidity of the cars whizzing by
Gogol was referenced
And the sun became a massive breast
As I read gasping for breath and slapped in the face with chaotic meaning
Orchids whispered out their final wishes and the world began to melt away
Becoming something new
An orgy of colors and destinations
And the map became a blob
And through it all I wanted to engulf myself in this book of sonnets
In that book of free verses
And all the stanzas cried out to me to look at them
To become them
“One more”
Read aloud
Only once more
although I had work the next day and should go to sleep
I was already dreaming
And with a new map with which to guide myself with I visited all the places referenced in the poems that I possibly could
And dreamt of the ones I couldn’t

And that’s when it slapped me in the face
The orchids were dying against the backdrop of smog
And the homeless lady had no hidden story that I could discern as she pissed on the side of the road
And Gogol couldn’t find me
The poet lied
And I damn myself for ever questioning him