April 27, 2012

poem 141 of a poem a day for 2012 (NaPoWriMo29)



where are the witnesses

who is to break open
the wax sealed graves
dug lips gold skin
who will wade the rums of steeped desire
who will find out if the caves
lead to roots and trees and leaves again
or if memory is the only seed left
are the artists the only ones still tilling the fields
to see if we can grow here
after everything is gone

drift-netting the hyperbole of clocks

I remember to drink from the cupped crescent worlds
I crawl past rust in the Sun
jagging the slags at the edges of my sanity
I am shape-shifting my dark parts past midnight
weed-neat rowing Love's ache breaking through the concrete
as this world is coming down with amnesia
one town at a time
this town, that town, my town too
used to be all promise and bustle
with the ease of technology
where hustling meant thriving wholly
instead of just surviving another Holy chapter change

I keep precious in the narrative
in the sacred long birth of my gravity
in all the houses at the edge of perpetual death
shadow harvesting the folded empty vitality of mementos
wrapping them in my black velvet soul

I am crawling in
these odd weather blues
with those milk tit skies,
warm handed valleys and
tided tongues of ritual singing 
that I had better not stop
trying to believe in me

EJR (c)

2 comments:

  1. Another piece, that as I read it several times, I like more with each reading. And there is always something about your last stanzas that spark.

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    Replies
    1. I appreciate your ears...very much so...

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