September 10, 2012

poem 317 of a poem a day for 2012

the key is to pull the long rope, slowly

the ignition fires up
sparks an electrical arc
to combustion, waiting
I put the car in reverse
and back out of the parking spot
night time is coming fast
with mid-September sliding
in beneath the yellow-
stained ends of leaves

the folly of a cut Sun silhouette
says the manger is a closing womb
and I roll down the window
to smell the linger here

there is nothing on the radio
so I put a CD in
the dashboard’s small
mechanical mouth
take five, from Dave Brubeck
churning rhythm, bobbing my head
lifting my spirit in circular melody

I find myself lost in jazz
every time I listen
like my favorite game
of sensed deprivation and sate
like when I am taking
your panties off with care
and insistence
and finding my nose
devouring each part
of surrender in their scent

this a memory
yet to be
there is a candle
on the night stand
and I see
that it is painting  
the wall into animals
we hear them coming
we know they’re inside
a brushstroke of an exhale
right now we are
little Mona Lisas
but by morning
there will be frescoes
around the block
and you whisper my cock
will make a clock obsolete
as it plays
your favorite
sundial theater 

the salty wake of arms
held around a moment
oysters time
presses it
into little potions
to pocket
for a later on
when one might not
be so near
the clear view
of your soul
in the dark
with that one
candle burning

anything can turn reason
into a pearl
into chaos
into the whir of tires
along the block
outside the open window
I slow down for traffic lights
as if they know to catch
and hold onto my simple
yearn to be
loved in just the right way
that opens the stars
and pours their shine
into someone’s eyes

sometimes the color blue
is the approach
of how someone can
unbutton my desires
one at a time
until I say
let me do it
and my fingers find
that clumsy works too
when slowed down enough
to see molecule after molecule
burning to catch
a ride home
caterwauling September
into the air

I am racing
toward October
bleeding myself into
her memory
drinking myself into
her sugar
plum-rosing every head flower
past it’s velvet prime

slow squeezed lust
stains me
covers me
enters me
as the spice rack stadiums
are all full of paid admissions
so let me help you
they finger paint
our erasable minds
have faintly sung
everyone is ready
the pantheon of pies
has begun
to be served
and crusty
flaky, buttery
and you are
ready to be eaten too

tinder paper forests
rustle leaves
eddy in the nooks and eaves
where the wind finds time
is a scour
a slow rise dream
of tomorrow's Sun
playing patty-cake for rum
while looking through
to the other side of glass

the neon vacancy light turns me on
with a slung hobo pack and a pole
to balance where I’m at
while walking the flats
with the mountains in the distance
I can stretch a single memory
into an infinity and live there
cardboard cathedral-ing
my soul like a long dormancy
with a slow awakening
so should I bleed through
and it’s you out there waiting
please just need me too
and draw down the Moon
into the well
and drink me
a ringing thought
clear as any bell
could toll
the night with


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