August 30, 2012

poem 296 of a poem a day for 2012




affordable midnight calling

steam pressing the air
with cricket frequencies
and sub tropical rushes
we dream in odd angled Sun
along the crisping dances
at our edges

it smells of ripening fire
and the high element danger
of iron cored stars
everything precious
begs to be burned
so much so 
that its mass
can only be determined
by the density
of each of our destinies
versus our free willing
of any subsequent
molecular development
that we may pocket
along the canal

just so we can hold
onto every different
stardust explosion
we are made of 
as the shapes
we become
when birthed by
shaking our 
money maker
at the jukebox
where music is
this synthroid to
cyber to organic
adhesion into
actualization

our souls 
start to bleed in
and our bones
gain enough electricity
to hold our skin on tight
and we find 
many a taker
in the rows of gravity
and the accidental spin
of chance and eyes
remembering
that smell knows
the way that can get us
to where we unzip ourselves
to leap to every begin again

EJR ©

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