this magical blue room.






Constantly risking absurdity | and death | whenever he performs | above the heads | of his audience | the poet like an acrobat | climbs on rime | to a high wire of his own making | and balancing on eyebeams | above a sea of faces | paces his way | to the other side of the day | performing entrachats | and sleight-of-foot tricks | and other high theatrics | and all without mistaking | any thing | for what it may not be | for he's the super realist | who must perforce perceive | taut truth | before the taking of each stance or step | in his supposed advance | toward that still higher perch where beauty stands and waits | with gravity | to start her death-defying leap | and he | a little charleychaplin man | who may or may not catch her fair eternal form | spreadeagled in the empty air | of existence

lawrence ferlinghetti | Constantly Risking Absurdity