July 12, 2012

poem 231 of a poem a day for 2012

getting your glory in the afterlife (welcome to the occupation)

instead of right here
humanity is the object
in the mirror that is nearer
the wall than you might think
so you steer off course
and into the drink
estimate what is next
and writhe into madness
and blind yourself of intention
remain in a now
that is forever out of time
rhyming the robbery of crickets
stabbing Summer in a molecular
thinned evening staccato mystery
counting the waves
7 to 9 cantos to crescendo
the end knows
before anyone can smell
the next word turning
insect charmed and wanting
a piece of you

and I too
don’t like this world
can’t stand having to climb
over someone to get ahead
don’t mind sustainability
though I too like finer things
wish the economy were more
global spun shaped fat middle easy
to follow the horizon but it’s not
so we got pyramids and jumpers
and thieves where you expect
solace to be
ghost organs
waiting for your
banked hopeful cells
filling in
re-animate your sins
when time wrinkles
or the ethics of capitalism
might finally bankrupt and
we find all the loose ends
were not paid for

I am an idealist
a fool for love
the lingerer undefined
the seeker of beauty
without cause or pause
or starvation

this is a Judeo-Christian slave nation
with stores of roe
in rows of life as imitation
sinners in depots
wading formations
waiting for the right train
waiting for whatever you want
because everyone wants it too
as I want it
wanting, wanting you
in the form of answers
to the problems of my algebra of needs
I‘d almost rather bleed out
daily tide it
taxi the bulge turn
of the Sun
as well as the Moon
still trying to leave orbit
to stop catching flack
and painting the impact
with craters that we name areas near
like tranquility and shit
as if any big fucking rock
hurtled from an unknown
with bad intentions
screaming past escape velocity
could be a good thing

I want the answers
more quickly than instantaneous
let me explain thus
we have a language to build
scaffolding and bridges to shape
the causeways and hold our water
that safeguards the compromises
a soul takes ever onward
towards its own identifiable purity
meanwhile eyes only see
toeholds and finger grips
crypts are walking knees
touring life in scripts
prescriptions and what
our lips sung of hello
my honey hello my baby
let me make you feel special
as you deliver me from need

I don’t mind bleeding a bit longer here
where sanctuary is definitely an illusion
and never free to have
as beauty might be a costly mask
all the time
just like salvation is slippery
when a rhyme
under the streetlight
corner fighting for a profit
and an early spade
to dig our own grave
as it seems to be
what Americans
can actually leave
for their children
these days


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