Hermetic Prose

by LaTisha Conto

It’s the staple on the utility pole

Tells the truest tale.

The notice has fallen away.

Or the notice has been detached,

Pulled off gingerly.

Or so it is supposed by the one now in the know.

Only the pole feels the pang of instruction.

Pang. Pang. Pang.

Prolonged Pangs,

Only so it can be told:

People have talent.

People have lost things.

People are lost and playing at being themselves.

And now weather sets in,

Sets an eye on the pole.

The message gets soaked in this role play,

Soaked, and now pulp.

Closest to the pole now.

But what of the staple?

This stubborn staple maintains the onslaught of pangs.

Still injecting the pain for the sake of the now long since fallen away message.

So now the pole,

Distraught with pain,

Racks its brain for the recall of time,

Before said message went away,

‘What’, pole cries out, ‘did it say?’

Absolute silence.

Pole never heard the message because the screeching was such,

That as the staple attached,

The pole could hear only itself.

And even though the message,

It did show on the pole: out,

Pole knew really, nothing about it.

And what is the necessity of said message?

What importance so great as to supersede the need of the pole to be free,

From pain?

Absolute trash.

To be forgotten in no time.

Long after it’s forgotten, the pole will remain encased in this nonsensical message.

No person noticing this pole’s implosion.

No person noticing this pole is a lone, lonely thing.

This quiet communicator,

Quietly writhing in pain.

Silence is understood only by the silent.

And the silence of the now message barren pole is:

A sad sickening soul,


Burned, but also buried,


Dead inside but never showing out,

Carrying the message,

Never knowing the least about it.