August 20, 2012

poem 277 of a poem a day for 2012

talking to myself, is it a dream

so you stood there waiting with me
as the cars sharp-gutter-careened
their insulated coffin toes
stubbing fornications of disregard
like that bastard’s life
in a comic book serial
with scratch-n-sniff color highlights
you are reading, Edward

never once looking up
at the sky or a tree
or the shit storm coming
to get everybody
welcome to apocalypse falls
I say and I pay my fare
and get on board this bus
to nowhere good hope lives
while you turn page after page
with your nose dug in so far to salt
in the blood of that book
that you might as well have
crystal skin and a long memory
capable of holding electricity
when rubbed the wrong way

cracking seams into this destiny
I pull you onto the bus
and pay your fare and
you mumble a thanks and
keep reading into something
that would be better off painting walls
instead of shallow minds
as the bus lurches forward through
its innumerable stops along the way
to where we might be going
on a pull string
on a puppet jaw
on a guffaw with armies
of empty salvation-ists and
their material hymnals
in plastic grocery bags
all climbing aboard and
giving us the same look
that says don’t burn holes
into me
I don’t want
to be here either

and soon I realize
no one’s getting off this bus
until its end destination and
there so many of us now
that I stand and hang from a strap
after giving up my seat and
watching you stay oblivious
to your surroundings
the acrid smells and cover all perfumes
begin to swell in the diesel fumes and
squealed brake sounds
as we are all bleeding rust and
the factories up ahead
in the distance
with their stacks a-glow
are not waiting to feed us jobs
they are waiting for us
to feed them ourselves
as I finally see
this is the bus
with no numbered lines
just a purity of apathy
in humanity like rain
finding its lowest point and
pooling and I understand why
you keep your head
in that book
because its garish pornography
is better than any of my holy pain
that you might hook
to wings to fly
home again



  1. Replies
    1. You're welcome Kat...really appreciate that you read what I paint...means a lot...gratitude...Edward