If I can be honest, I would say
some poets are better read out loud
by an actor, perhaps, or someone
with an assured voice, someone who plays
a dashing, dapper, dark man on a serial
that everyone loves to hate.
I am often disappointed by a poet’s own voice.
The words I love are distorted by the minds
who made them and I think,
But you’ve read it all wrong.
Somehow you, O you, are reading to me from
my own soul and I wish I had known you
and the streets of New York that you trod.
Your black and white voice reminds me of Dylan
in his early days, before he got religious,
before he went back. The lilting matter of fact,
your words the color of oranges. How could you not
understand when the prophet said,
Beware the bugs on the island of fire?


About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

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