July 12, 2012

poem 232 of a poem a day for 2012

pouring the metal of my morality

we humans
lick the wind
hide in thickets
of pick-its and the hair
that grows from soft selling souls
the forged molecular drive to buy more
we have cut off the head
from the body
save for appearances
as we are not quite yet
capable as a race to see
disembodied brains
afloat in salient glass
and wired to move
the mechanics of old as dirt
spun faster and faster
until we are all hurting
in the lengthening shadow fires
that the ghosts of Autumn
sting the quiet with

in a quickened cricket laced slag
we pace the sand
we mound it and
we depress it
with a fast ladle working best
we crawl the invocations
we tease our freewill into cement
using a bait and switch
a demented lore which
with its scented allure
of something better
tells us each letter
that silence knows is both
suffering and joy
and though we toy with ideals
we might not even know
after the burn heals
that our memory has stopped
pretending it knows anything
other than what
an emotion smells like


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