July 6, 2012

poem 218 of a poem a day for 2012

portal bow, drawn

I hear clock hands clacking
with their steel edged mouths and radial spin
ratcheting a hunger for distilled moments
that I drink in while writing bottles
to fill with stolen moonlight
Buddha is glazing smile after smile
laughing at all the western doll-faces
that litter my broken dark

the underfolks are picking up the pieces
spindling them back into
the amble-weaves of life by morning
they are jumping every shadow
with a broom until Dawn arrives
with her crystal minions crawling
from the caved madness of nightfall
and all the quick-silvered blood rain
of the waning Moon, bellying up to the bar

She is a thief herself
with a most ancient hunger
and an empty sack for the dreams
that our open windows spill
when the air, meeting the sill
begins to cool the networks
of concrete exhales veining
throughout hushed-language forests
as neighborhoods are sleeping

we are clinging to the logic
of ritual adherence with words
that own the appearances of right or wrong
but are only illusions when cross-referenced
to the optical nerve of daylight
as all our little cellular Prometheuses
are bleeding out a call
for more entertainment
on the flight of our pierced-arrowed
desire to get home

we want more to drink
we want to taste more 
of what forgetting does
to the entry fee
of what it does
to recollection of innate
wound in another 
ball of stringing 
our choices as fate


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