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

EJR ©