June 21, 2012

poem 196 of a poem a day for 2012

dark angels in languid neighborhood bars

the manner of the banter is
a lovely mood striking gold
or some other immutable renew
this is the velvet hammer
of what water does
tide to shoulder crawling bowed
to the sand I build castles in
just to watch them crumble again
and again as my friends or rather
those that dare love who I am
take note of my corner lonely
and come and go as the seasons do

not that I expect it
to always be Spring
it’s just that when birthing thoughts
I sing a creative writhe
burning for something blind
to see who am I
I ask repeatedly
my questions slip down
gravity’s crowned condensate
on the glass paper napkin
the rate of ripe is such
that ice in the Summer
is one of many illusions or delusions
in my pool of desires

if I could I’d burn everything
just to watch the charred remains
explain why everything
is always churning
why everything wants to be
at the near edge of my empty
why everything I can think of
as coming in to being
is just another way I want to see
without my eyes

I hear the whispers of conversation
as I slowly stir my drink
and pretend to watch
the broadcast news on the TV
above the Scotch display at the bar
but who am I kidding
I am wading constantly inside
the painted picture of any reason
to reach the remnant sweep of another day

outside the heat is furnace hot
asphalt is cracking trees bent into weeping
and every person who comes in
remarks about it
in some obvious password entry
that neatens a way
and lets everyone hear them say
bent over a thought drinking them in
that they know how hot it is too

but I could care less
unless of course they can see
my amniotic mania and all
the pretty pictured worlds
combining a frightened might
with my quick-silver wit
that I hope they do not
find the rabbit hole I am in
so I just slowly pot-stir and sip
the fine mixture of whiskey and water
wondering with an odd
out of place smile
of a gray-beard
of a poet searching
ever searching for more angels
who know which way to sin
which way holds me
armed again


1 comment:

  1. Simply love the third stanza, a stand-alone gift.