somewhere in wilmington
waiting and wilting
baiting and quilting
an intricate weave
an alluring network of delicacies
through hell bent phosphorescent mind
of elder kinsmen magician sort
what to say
of lovers and wise men,
scoundrels and boys in the sticks
and creative stories:
hey, is that true?
no. it’s made up and so
we believe it
because it’s a wonderful rose
that grows
incandescent strobe light wonderful
god, i love that word:
wonderful
it’s not quite said enough
yet, says enough
and yet, not
and therefore…
much more, you see?
it’s simple
and silly, yes.
after all,
isn’t everything?
it is in wilmington
things often stated
rather matter-of-fact-ly
like ideas that
hit you in the lung,
real wonderful like;
something like joy
like knowing it will all be o.k.
even though you
really don’t know that
it will all be o.k.;
like finding out that
your brain will
chase its own tail, if you let it
and not making that mistake again
and not hiring woe
to spend all your money
woe?
oh, no.
i apologize.
the subject was joy.
or was it wonderfulness? (;)
or was it wilmington? (;)
or was it silliness? (;)
i believe it may have been
willingness;
willingness to accept certain things;
to accept the fact that
you is you
and you
is the only you
you get, you.
they do forget you.
one way or another, brother,
they forget you
wake up
and you realize
that this is the
karmic scheme of things
and many dreams it brings,
in the wee small hours,
that seem like days
because you’ve been dreaming
for years
that you were
really here
but you were really
just asleep
and dreaming
that you were
awake
and
baked
somewhere
in
wilmington
Kevin Trent Boswell 