September 25, 2012

poem 341 of a poem a day for 2012

I have become another dirty old man who offers moustache rides

I was bellying up
to the bar
as the halved Moon
nearing Harvest time
was slaking between
the brick and mortar fiefdom trees
the avenues and little streets
of bending wills to knees
to cut out windows in veins
so when we dredge up the ghosts
that live in old river cities like these
we know why we pause
at the every gift the sky gives us

it is another early Autumn evening
assailed with cold air and
my sense that Summer
has ended too soon
and I am another drunk
at the neighborhood bar
watching the watchers of TV
while we all are looking around
for secret marks and dotted lines
for permission in the furtive glances
we are passing off as pulling at our shirts
or a straightening of collars

those college girls over there
packed around the high top
are laughing while diving into nachos
it all looks so delicious
as we keep catching
little pieces of ourselves
looking down at our pints
wondering what sex would be like
with many women 
less than half our age

the real parted seas of glory
are the tales we make up in our heads
where we get to know their mothers too
finding out what their legs raised
can do to us when rolling
into the morning dew
after a night of drinking
and finding our way back
to any place but right here
and right now
finding everything that binds us
to being as undone
as the memory of the Moon
slid down the windows
staining the sills
and mapping every treasure
that scent can capture us with

inside to out and emptying
our glasses again
we crawl for more
of these fantasies to fulfill
we bargain for more passes to swill
for more condensation on our hands
that slide to hold the parts of ourselves
we want to be next to that you
we’ve created inside another fantasy
of how you turn our wheels
and pull the levers again
just to hear the bells whistle
in old railroad songs
with our pockets full
of quarters and the jukebox waiting
to see us watching
what used to be clean sentence structure
and tight grammar that held
a paragraph together
but is now a wiped brow
and throated notes
with smiles thrown
into the silences
of two way mirrors
in our one way stories


1 comment:

  1. Perfectly captures how our inability (fear?) to be present, to be fully connected to our purest essence makes us so empty we are left chasing futile sense pleasures outside...
    Peace and thanks!