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
EJR
©
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...
ReplyDeletePeace and thanks!