poem 201 of a poem a day for 2012

Who are you poet

why do I deify my ego

am I king of the beasts

or at least master

of an industrial age puppetry

a road grading rapist

of painted words as trees

with a clever bend

of my knees

as it suits

my gains

Dawn is outside

the window

in a cool wrap

high spun fingered rain

wearing every bridge

of tomorrow nearing

knowing why the leaves cry

as I do exiled

from the main lines

of my life

I am drinking dissent

in the desert

grinding sand into

the temporary

permanence

of glass

I want to see through

to get past

what I may never know

as anything other than

the fast exit of a bullet

but I am a slow bleed

with no need

not to feel pain

so what of the unanswerable

why the sharp sticks

in my eye

the behavioral dissection

of the razed erection

of blaming everyone

but myself for how

I can’t seem to fit in

to anywhere but the wind

and the carve

that memory serves

for the songs walls sing

these serenades are more

nurse-maid than ample breasts

I can rest my hunger on

always wanting something

I cannot define

EJR ©