May 17, 2012

poem 160 of a poem a day for 2012

tavern Her light and pour me another 

every time we turn from the Sun
night falls prey to shadows
peddles mystics
tides each pattern in the nature
of our civilized human frenzy
we find an identity in
some days when we crane our necks to think
looking up at the pin-pricked black sack cloth sky
we might even pray right
we might even have some humility
that we will know why we've come this way
that we will know even in some limited stolen sensed why
that we may only get to see the promised land from a distance
those Heavens in thinning books will always be 
just beyond our physical reach
we are the clan of Moses 

we want Her back
we want Her to have
our mythological surrender
the Goddess knows
She is being written out of books
to ensure the world looks
for power first and Love second
but we don't care how things are supposed to be
in broken glass passed as truth
we dare anyone not to see what is beneath
the skin of things as if the wired mechanics
the holes in the story can mask any scent
with a holier than thou
they turn every Her into the grotesque
in order to find their macabre believable
artfully selling the rest of Her beauty in this delusion
of turning pages with numbered verses and repeated chants
recant, recant, recant the birds echo in the spill of Dawn
stop mutilating Her genitalia, one girl at a time
stop pretending Jesus didn't fuck
stop pretending that you don't understand
all your luck is running out
like the dead light of stars
spilling pointed shouts
because everyone knows
it's almost closing time around here


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