Leaving a Mark

Standard

Tomorrow’s prospects unleash a swift cascade
of debris and surprise! my once effervescent
disorder punctures its hulk. The bum halcyon
has shirked its duties. Piquant and resonant
tremble of cityscape, not quite serene.
O! Would that I could coerce

all of it to poetry! The way a sonata can coerce
lesser specimens to tears. To move within its cascade!
So much for this business of being serene.
Is one really effervescent
or merely fleeting? All sunsets, in a way, are resonant
and speak of an order much more halcyon.

Well then, should I romance all that is halcyon?
Or maybe I’d better try and coerce
some meaningful  anxiety. Anxiety, with its resonant
pulse. There’s a fucking cascade
if ever I can imagine. Yet in the effervescent
dry heave, there’s no hope for the serene. 

For the record, I have been serene. 
Sheltered, docile, probably halcyon
in a sense. It’s different from being effervescent.
Regardless, right now, any hope to coerce
such modes of consciousness has been crushed in the cascade.
So I’ll settle for being resonant

like desert heat is resonant. 
So senseless that it’s almost quite serene!
Shit, this won’t do. You need a devastating cascade
now and again to shake things up. To get back to the halcyon
splendor the poets speak of. I can coerce 
the heart to beat, believe me. Like an effervescent

spring rain. Not that I know what effervescent 
truly means, physiologically speaking. Resonant, 
these corruptions. Yet not resonant enough to coerce
me to a new worldview. I’m serene
in my own way, I suppose. Uniquely halcyon
and, in my own way, I cascade.

And in the effervescent throes of my cascade
I can coerce to song the serene
and resonant wails of the halcyon.

-r. miller

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