Poem Before The News
Robert Michael O'Hearn
Excited again, exacting new words
dancing around in your head
never to find their way to paper
like slam dancers trying out new rain dances.
Certain phrases, even tautologies
make apparent the dumb lips movement
as if anticipating the taste
of some wildly exotic liqueur.
Would it be any less troubling to remember
that nothing can be said new that's not recycled,
and nothing's known that hasn't seen a prior sun.
Perhaps this heart wants to prematurely sing,
unable to leap high for a certain conciousness
employed when derailing its predictable sanity.
And you retell everything from beginning to end.
Now, are you tintillated by the evening news?
Now that's another story stuck up on ice.
So consult I-Ching and throw the dice.
