Of The Salamander And The Duck: The Elves In Ourselves

Disclaimer, this work of unchecked fancy is loosely inspired

by Daniel Dennett's ideas on consciousness.

"But as Descartes observed, even an infinitely powerful evil demon couldn't trick him into thinking he himself existed if he didn't exist:

cogito ergo sum, “I think, therefore I am." -- Daniel Dennett

I wrote 432 poems now,

and I have no idea how.

It is never something that I want to write about,

like funny cats, new song and art ideas, or my workout.

And even though I start my poem by concentrating,

it is as if, I always end up waiting.

And what _is_ this thing that I seem to end up wait for?

as I sit and sit... staring at the boring floor.

Does the idea drive a little car?

and does it make a little pit stop by some little bar?

Because, in my opinion the idea is _always_ late,

why can't it just... accelerate?

And what happens when my little poems just keep going,

is it a little boat that is rowing, or is it a wind that can't stop blowing?

Not to say that I am long winded surely,

plus I always try to write very maturity.

But I admit, a twenty minute narration,

is a little heavy on the duration.

Worse than that, the _whole_ audio book,

is now measured in days a fact that I try to overlook.

After almost half a thousand days,

the ideas seem to move along their _own_ roads and waterways.

As you can imagine, it gets rough when you get stuck,

it is a little bit like chasing a duck.

I always thought poems were simple things,

but that is not true as they have their own wings.

Even if it is a long and scientific text,

you never know when you are going to end up next.

I guess it is just one of those things that meander,

like some twitchy golden salamander.

As all of a sudden you go from commander,

to a mere bystander.

Standing in a corner holding a pen in one hand,

and the other a piece of paper on which you doodled all the way to the end.

The words at the bottom are all squished,

NO, you couldn't avoid scribbling them no matter how much you wished.

And then no matter how hard you try to squint,

you can't read your own print.

The poem seems to end with the word jabberwock,

underlined twice, as it was the punchline, but it doesn't rhyme.

And by now you forgot your final stanza,

it is now gibberish and all kinds of extravaganza.

The idea drove away, the rhymes floated down the stream,

the duck ate the salamander, turns out they weren't even a team.

But, before you know it I finish poem #433,

which has yet again written it self as if I were some helpless manatee.

And I still don't know how poems can just write them themselves,

though this one for a change at-least reads as it was written by elves.