Poetic Devices

Poetic Devices

I sold my car to become a poet.

Not for money but device-less

originality.

My computer too.

That window without

a view.

In days to come

I shunned my dishwasher,

listening instead to the swoosh 

of suds in the sink.

The squeak of a clean plate

echoed in my voice.

One morning I noticed 

the air conditioner’s drone,

that constant groan of cold air 

had to be cliche.

I traded its roar for tacky ticking--

then I tossed my clock

and bought a sundial.

Always I reached

for what had never been

invented. Further and further back

till there was no written language.

Eventually I had to stop

writing altogether, get myself

a drum. 

the pound of pure sound--

never mind its wordless rendering.

I dream I am chased by a tiger

panting without metaphors

for my fear or here

sitting in my mud house

without a carpet cleaner.