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Poem Number Three Hundred and Eighty-Two

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Poem Number Three Hundred and Eighty-Two
by Philip Kobylarz
Between a Dutchman and the Devil who can smoke the most?
Only no one knows and they are selling nothing in finely
Crafted boxes, some of needle, some of woven, hand-blown
Glass, some of blades of stone (no, not obsidian), some
Of microscopic cardboard boxes stacked together to form
One big box– the one you’re supposed to think outside
Of.
If everything weren’t a box, there would be no seas.
Davy Jones’ locker, our ultimate destination, some call it
Space, an abstraction to end all abstraction. Gardens of
Sand with wind carved Ozymandiuses swept across Mar’s
horizon which Martians, by the way, see as turquoise Indian
bracelets. Or at least a cream of wine. They are Buddhas
who never. Stay hungry.
In listening, listening close,
embers trickle.
They’ll try to seduce the next fool, spiders.
A fly. A gnat. A wallpaper of rococo or the laser reflection
Of the eyes of those of us who do entertain souls. We’re
all that and a bag of chips, girl. And she’s a Georgia peach
ready for the halv-
ing.
The thesis here folks is that you’re closest to the world
the further from it you go. Try first the sewers of Paris or
catacombs, oh about anywhere, maybe a pooled cave in
mesoamerica, late Toltec, bones of jaguars and human
bones of humans and jaguars, humans and jaguars,
entwined.

0 thoughts on “Poem Number Three Hundred and Eighty-Two”

  1. of the darkest side in me, starves the darkest pit in me- it’s potheaded poetry, i came across like i’m all betrothed to pothead poetry.
    some of blades of stone (no, not obsidian)
    SUCKS, because obsidian, especially in the raw, is best. it’s really just like magma rock formed at a fast past really hot so it just turned into glass. i have collected ’em but now i’m really just getting the hint that i’ve fossilized into a capsule for trees of past lives now so jet and amber please, jet especially.
    i fell in love with obsidian in earth science class and never looked back. my mind has been changed forever.

    1. It may be pothead poetry, but what a great source of imagery, connection, and shock (“ready for the halv-ing”). I like “microscopic cardboard boxes stacked together to form one big box” leading to “the one you’re supposed to think outside of” leading to “If everything weren’t a box, there would be no seas” leading to “Davy Jones’ locker” and those associations. Makes me think the mind is a sea we’re doomed to drown in. I’m not sure about all the references, but the thesis “you’re closest to the world the further from it you get” may tie them all together like the jaguar and human bones entwined at the end. Meaning: reaching out to whatever comes to mind may get us closer to the world that really is which we can’t rationally comprehend; which has the potential to change the mind forever and free us from its box. I wonder what the previous 381 poems are like, and what 383 will be.

  3. oh damn laptop it didn’t let me finish. ‘LMAO…you are so sweet, so sweet so sweet. i’m not too mathematical though to disect poems like that. i don’t know. i hated school.
    take it in and exhale it out and see what it smells like and what color your snot is today…when poetry gets real abstract, that’s what ya do. i didn’t dislike the poem, but i can spot a pothead goin’ off on potheaded linguistics from a mile away. so i did a bird call back. ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.

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