ISSUE I: P(art) of the Soul

POETRY
I
like to keep my wits about
me:
yapping at novelty, helping
me see.
They run free through the house,
scratching floorboards, doors –
and though I keep them close
when we go outside, I make sure to
walk them on gold leashes, proudly;
and let them run wild in empty woods…
I like to keep my wits about me.
A tangle of leashes, wrists bruised red;
a mongrel pack, all shapes and sizes;
snarling and arguing, sniffing out answers.
I encourage nosiness, their taste for blood.
Dragging the scarlet of falsehood fox
along the ground to train them in tracking…
Unpack strawman arguments; scatter them
wide.
I like to keep my wits about me.
Gnawing on bones and peeing on newspapers;
making them play ball in fields of thought
though caring little whether the ball comes
back…
The chase is what counts. The hunt; the trail;
the accurate sniff and wagging tail at the
smell of
a lie; a scare campaign; a slogan or a logical
fallacy.
…My pack is young, but learning quickly.
I like to keep my wits about me –
though many question if this is sage…
In a time when words so often bite their
masters
is it wise to hone wits – and to rarely tell
them off
or nurture mongrel thoughts yet to debut
in public?
…And if I must own wits, couldn’t I at least
make them
bland yet fashionable? …Does IKEA massproduce
a catalogue for ideas? I’d like to sink my
teeth into it!
I like to keep my wits about me
in a time when we’re asked to keep them
in cages,
and some dump them quietly on the side
of the road
before starting their office job. Well – it
may be easier
to bury opinions, to avoid debate, to keep
the peace;
but when debate becomes hate and hisses
at your door
you will want your wits – eyes bright, ears
pricked –
ready to be set on the tongues of one’s
enemies.
P
A
G
E
21
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