JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Constructed of spies’ snipped-out syllables

cuttings from the New Yorker

instructions on detergent bottles

not for human consumption

arranged, re-arranged, unsigned, unsyncopated

cloaked in mystery, hacked passwords

dark moth-infested overcoats and pockets

passageways, detours and tunnels

cellars, sewers, fire escapes and exits

a maze of multiple and never-endings

a hint of déjà-vu to catch your breath on

puzzles predicaments and pumpernickel

hanging on cliff-edge events or non events

 

Yet, containing within its labyrinthine

twistings and turnings, bodies and dead ends

a clue, cleverly disguised

to tempt discerning readers

a drop-box at the corner of a moonlit lane

that approached quite unintentionally as if

in passing, nonchalant and by-the-way

reveals its true intent, its secret hidden message

that all of literature from Edgar Allen, William,

Dylan, Blake and Dagwood Bumstead, hides

inside its seemingly quite normal convolutions—

a secret—once deciphered ne’er forgotten

 

That on the way I lost somewhere

between the fire escapes and snipped-out spaces

… the rest is commentary