poem 162 of a poem a day for 2012

warm wombs tie down the sharp ends of broken Suns

looking for glass tides

time’s repeated ritual

my base animal wants

my elements framed in ever growing hunger

my uncertainty placed in nature

I am in the long line of mouths coiling orbits

laced with the teeth of constant erode

I am part of humanity incinerating the windows

that languages achieve escape velocity with

I am part of every cut pathed neo-classical economic rage

I am weaned in rained need for there to be

a deep pool of bottom feeders in the hatch forests

I am wearing the carved herded lemming pushes

crawl-bushing on the ground

chanting mining rights

in every vein of night we might seed

with electro-gap short fired feeding tubes

the smell of paper pages and simple metals

are distant memories in the clay fog altars

we pay attention to May and its insistence with

each arrival in the undergrowth  

reaches the desire of rivers

plucked stringed music shimmies through the shale

and old downed trees and invaded species  

on the roads, ghosts buzz with stolen blood

in the fuel gasses, turning the harpies loose

to eat the clouds and anger the Sun

we chemical peel death without the right gene maybe

or long clothes and limited exposure and so on

we can revere but not be so near

the horned radio magnetic root waved tsunami

the Sun, tonguing our neurons 

burn our hatch forest down

as we bathe in the fire of memory  

of the many Mays before this one

we pause in a slow roast  

warm wrapping each of our tender humanities

that basket reeds outside this factory

in these non refundable warranties

we bandage ourselves in

saltwater saving our eyes

because the nose already knows

to embrace the change 

and wear sunscreen

I am always looking for the ripe

of a moment to somehow turn pages

in the bound cupped handed light of chaos

my humanity’s tether-skin webbed to community  

dreams in May spills, shaves rust from just past

the cast pall of running towards absolutely still

like a hummingbird coming to feed

under the drip scent honeysuckle blooms

with its little bells of sweet thirst calling

in this sauntered Sun’s long goodbye

of a day stretching into shadow

the odd silhouettes of my bones are heralding

the paper and ink and tapping fingers

somewhere clung to the near edge of this ripe

I sit and throw out lines, fish free will

in ocean currents of air, fire, water and Earth

hooking for meaning, coming in flashes

reflecting my own bent squeezed

cry-light of day painting night

like this one, cutting itself again 

bleeding like me

leaning on the canvas 

tissued elevator bone

cages spirit trying 

to find a connected-ness

you might pause too 

to catch your own Mona Lisa rapture

your own accidental discovery of purpose 

and you might even garland it

in the slow silence and frenzy 

beneath the surface of any ending

and you might perch like I do

on the thin edge of that ripe

and bow to a wonder that has you 

laughing without reason

full of awe in velvet crept paced twilight

so willing to just wait for you 

to give birth here

EJR ©