Author’s Note: At the beginning of Fall semester, I heard about this upperclassman who writes a lot of poetry. One night after reading his publication “pretty like kids” I said to myself, “You know what would be meta? Writing a poem about a poet.”
Thus, in the words of Genesis 1:7: “And it was so.”
leo, his name is. was. the sigil of the sahara comes
whisper-quiet through ink-grass. not a roar: this is no
battle for territory, these words he’s vomited out into
the atmosphere. at least not against the rest of us.
he’s fighting for himself, perhaps.
i don’t feel like acknowledging the struggle curtailed
behind carefully crafted witticisms so i stick to the surface
too afraid of running aground on the reef.
( “stay where it’s pretty or your own scars will rub loose.” )
a shitty philosophy, but at least it’s mine.
the only lion in the room is also mine – a pride in collective apathy.
leo’s words are mine as well. but he already knew that.
he’s a poet, after all.