September 7, 2012

poem 312 of a poem a day for 2012

a threadbare ramble burns my American dream just beyond the trees

a phone keeps
ringing down the hallway
there must be
no answering machine
as the rings drone on
and I start anticipating
each one’s beginning
brass hammer plated
between two bells
or at least
how I imagined
how the sound
being born would be

old rotary
black and heavy
hard wired to the wall
on a little table
near a floor lamp
with mice wait too
for someone to pick it up
so they can continue
foraging for anything left out
for something reachable
in the tenacity of tiny claws
and sharp noses

for in this land
men and mice
are always searching
for the prolific to bleed
and for all the ripe
to drink in
so they can
eat every stain 

the milk is dry
and the honey bees have died
or at least slowed
outside the windows
looking for fallen pieces of sugar
as every bloom has gone
on to apples and other fruit
and are heavy prices
in the trees

trucks rumble
in the distance
as a weekend approaches
broaching the poached
parts of humanity

it is the end
of another work week
and this land’s mentality says
we must reward ourselves
in neon dreams
stripping the landscape
where gasoline is cheaper
than the blood we drink

so we keep carving away
at the sounds in the forests
to pave monuments
to our ashen dignity
each mile, stringing
lodge pine poles
soaked in oil
hoisting our desire
to be electricity in veins
that explain
our constant need
to be heard
as the phone
keeps ringing
down the hallway
and the right answers
seem faraway


No comments:

Post a Comment