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

EJR ©