poem 168 of a poem a day for 2012

into something that smells of a heavy lift

grass grows insists on being mowed

knows we don't always accept 

what's wild inside us

dares to vine a tine full of dark soul

covering the barrels of guns with flower stems

shooting the blossoms into 

what is forseen as ends

staying to feed the masses

we plant in asses

frontal electronic dissonance

we numb the dead

so we can dance on the grave

live off those still beating their hearts

as if the drums of Jericho

are ice cream trucks all playing

can I get some of that

we climb towers 

fill them as ants

and we are sent bastards 

we are centralized banks

lending weeps and sows

and we know to go to a different economic model

of certainty, though it's hard to grow

from comfort and rust into rage

that must be present for Love

to come home to where we are again

my madness is a jazz 

that plays wings 

despite being boxed

into esoteric existence

with a resistance of bread

rising on a warm sill

even if I am just a ghost that wants

I want to stop you with a pause

long enough to swim your undertows

and find where you might stand

tall enough to bring the rain

the thirsty plains

climate isolation wants rain in the delta

silt tongues dream of this

pressed in stretched calliope

electrical pulse webs

I'm always turning something on

other than my selfless parts

my surrender is the silent pool

the ripe waiting

my pride is okay for ballast

but not meant to build with

I am too voracious of a mouth

to be led near the watery stillness before Dawn

Summer is leaning

heavy leaded statues

are waiting for nitrogen in kisses

that bring the birdsongs

those belled reminders

that curve along the back of a woman

grab hold, slide hands down bitten shoulders

reaching in, wet claying fingers

lingering where roots sweeten themselves

with more bliss

I hear the saint of strain

slow slicing to gain the wind

you breathe desire in those spaces

that water waits for someone to wade in

bending limbs, some call it sin

I call it crawled desire to get back in

humanity speaks in fires

throwing flares to stop staring in the pitch black

we know the open window curls in tight

might hold on to the entry spell

tell me more please,pull the shade

as I pull your hair

and slide my tongue along your spine

I am mining the finery of your don't stop melody

your warm skin wraps me in

with what I want

in each slung note that clings

as I do, shoulders, hands, pull words

from languages arching in quiet

each parted black surrender

says don't worry or hurry

just let go and feel 

how to push back

onto each other

with each coil of time fleshed

stretched, rolling eyes 

like dies in blood

tided to screaming 

and cupped handed hearts

we bend to drink dreams 

we sew lust so that it will never matter

what you look for in the stars

for they know they are dead

and only shadow the light

with a drive to get inside

what we think of as skin and sky

but maybe hope can live there on that other side

where we dare to let go of pre-conception

to conceive these articles like fingers

reaching for roses to pull more windows

into the heavy smell of salt

looking for something to preserve

looking for something to taste

and remember

EJR ©