poem, poetry, writing, Michel Foucault

FROZEN

my hands are frozen stiff
and yet
all this sitting
in the cold snow
in vain

nothing here
so
beneath zero
able to cool the hot
zeal of the words themselves

lust for life no
matter how empty
how inconsequential
this life
might well prove to be

my demons
marching across the page
demanding their right
to speak
for themselves, go
the whole way

a wildfire about to happen
whilst I must, logically speaking,
submit to
their will, to the right
of language to dictate
what it has to,
desires to, needs to

comply with the smart, counter
intuitive, freezing thinking,
with your
frozen-solid conception
of creation my dear
Monsieur Michel Foucault

idea
that author is
the thing the poem itself,
this poem itself
has issues with

confounding your dreamt of structure
        bringing it all
into one
mesmerizing sequence of
gorgeouslly miraculous fractal moments
       dancing, despoiling, flaunting
seducing, infecting,
                  overpowering

such resonance
birthing in the brain patterns of
wonder
            the world
            has not yet
had the pleasure to
                       discover it owns, it has, as
     has been ruthlessly revealed

and
still stuck
in the snow

once again, these fingers freezing