May 16, 2012

poem 159 of a poem a day for 2012

the emptying chair  

I am unfit to be
a father, a husband or myself
I am scorned thorned
brambled on the beach
far away from ivy
in a gnarled intensity
the Love has a hard time reaching
as even the Sun stays
away from here

I am not sure
of anything anymore
whether weather is
a curtain or a door
or even a window
to the tides
of my soul’s journey
through time

I didn't ask to be born
to be abandoned 
to be poisoned by disregard
I didn't ask to raised
as a token social leper
I didn't ask for anything
but Love in a language incomplete  
and now I know nothing
of how to understand
its’ simple still beauty
I know nothing of how to tell
even the smallest parts of me that it is okay
to open up my soul to shine home
towards whatever it means
to let go of pain

I am selfish
bent on individual expression
but not of understanding
I speak the same language
the same component
laughter to tear ratio
as all of you but no
it isn't the song being
played right now
as my humanity seems
to be lost somewhere
on my time’s path

I am leaning my eyes
outside the window
at the kitchen table it seems
as if another cloudy day is upon me
and when the children ignore me
leaving for school
I am a spit turned odd fire
that roasts open my skin
and shows the lack of fat
the blood that masks
the tears I hold in
does so because all I do
is thirst for salt
all the time now
thirsting to appreciate
some part of who I am

I have been running to find
a safe place to hide
for so long now I may have
permanently given up
my right to trust or be trusted
I am merely sagebrush tumbling now
in the ghosted streets of vacated promises
that have built towns
with no names no places
where I used to believe
where the mechanics of chicanery
might have fooled me
as I began selling the shiny polish
of don't look inside me long ago
I have now forgotten
who I was or am or could be

so outside the window
with its cloudy sky
another priceless May has come
and it looks the same as all the others
but I am a step closer to the tides
to the sands that oblivion waits for
to cover my hollow caring with
my history etched in backwards writing
as if going over the sidewalk with chalk
could stave off my disillusion in the rain
it doesn't and I never have to explain why
because truth is I don't know why
as much as I know how to make pretty pictures
with words and fantastic bits of cleverly absurd
ironies with wings that mimic destiny
and other things but what do I really know
if I don't know how to Love
those who know to Love without reason

being born into this world
is not a choice
only an opportunity to voice
a soul that's found
the wry wiring of skin and bones
to ply desire with and as
I am coming to know only this
that I have sang so much 
of things outside myself
I no longer can start
to find where the words are
that only fit me


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