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This poem means nothing
Lindsay Kulla
I wrote this poem
From perspectives unavailable
To any audience
My world has different maps
Ordering different cultures
I order you into mine
I am not telling a simple story
I am mystifying you
My story is my companion
I am trying once again
To figure out my meaning
While you talk?
Your landscape is more figurative
Than you are literal
Your plot has not been pushed
Into explanations of the people
I explain to you nothing
But neither does the dialogue
The right words to the right questions
Are the wrong answers
Answered wrong
I have no specific lesson to teach
My moral position is more ambiguous than uncertain
My journey’s confrontations are growing
Unrecognizable.
The others cannot impose meanings on others
The meanings they impose reflect
Only their own anxieties
Darkness describes fog when there is a weird cry
There is no whisper or shadow
Behind you besides your swallow
This poem is fascinating
But never arrives at the meaning
The people leave without leaving
And I know there is no end
I ask constant questions
That only suggest foreign mysteries
I cannot reveal what I cannot explain
You are signs frequently confronting me
With secret tests
You are the question that
I cannot interpret by writing
This poem is a thing
Seen, smelled and tasted
But not truly experienced
I am told there is a meaning
But it is beyond my literal
Old women knit black wool
Perhaps
They relate to relatives simply
These images that I wear on my
Wool and my clothing that
Shrieks with piercing colors—somber but useful
I route my destiny and jump from your cliff
The getaway is far too mysterious
As I slip into the getaway of
The underworld nocturnia
Your demeanor is too serious
For my mystery
This is a poem that you will leave here
Follow my cliff drop
And blast me needlessly into unused
Rivulets
Stolen from within moist inner barrels
Breaking free with a dynamic sleep
I dream
And there are no signs
This poem means nothing
Nothing at all.