Real Life

I wrote a poem tonight
there were no birds in it
no animals of any sort
I set about to write
a human
in the poem
Make it machinic,
workable,
a man made humanistic poem
without arms or eyes or even
a soul
but it wasn't
real, it was a representation
of a poem
It was a dream
that God was jealous of
It wasn't real
even though I wrote it,
it didn't exist
even though there was
a single human in it,
the last one
Maybe it's real now
because I say so,
maybe it's truth
because I wrote it in a dream
God didn't have.
I have a memory of it,
and the memory is present,
but the past has a point.
Maybe, if you touch the poem,
you, human,
it will come alive,
or maybe you have to
ingest it
to make it real,
make it feel something
in you, something
realer than a poem,
like anger,
maybe if you stick out your tongue,
licked the screen
with your humanity,
you can give it truth, or if not truth,
than at least some legs
to stand on, legs
that God would be jealous of.
If this poem had legs,
would you read it?
Would you touch it then?

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(k)