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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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I have heard some say 
That the poem begins  
In the burning tip 
of the last cigarette 
of the night, just before 
Turning to ash, left out as food 
For the starving plants and artists. 
 
Some say the poem begins in the blank page 
Between the cover and the index. 
Where it roams around misled until 
The spark meets the match - 
The romantic meets his match. 
And the faithless meet their god. 
 
Others say the poem is in the ocean, 
The captain of an old  
Wooden ship, sailing. 
Riding the ancient spring tide  
Sealed tightly inside  
A tiny glass bottle. 
 
I used to believe the poem would go 
To my favorite hole on a lonely night 
When the moon was as full  
As my glass was empty. 
It would stumble up to the bar  
And order the same liquor  
As it had every time before. 
And sometimes I would feel bad 
And offer it some company 
Then realize it was never there. 
 
Sometimes if you listen carefully enough, 
Even for just a moment, 
You can hear it quietly sing. 
 
I once heard it singing in my radio 
While listening to Mozart - 
The piece he finished 
After his own funeral 
About the madness and  
Absolution of death. 
 
 

Upon hearing it 
I opened my journal 
And wrote about 
The way it moved, 
The way it danced 
Between the mind  
And naked canvas. 
 
That was when I realized 
Where the poem begins- 
In the music of the pen, 
Sitting in a chair, 
On a quiet restless night.


                   -Jacob Kaiser