May 20, 2012

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


1 comment:

  1. And, once again, I am captivated and when I reach the last stanza, over I go x