poem 342 of a poem a day for 2012

like a gust of wind in Autumn

I am in my shell sanctuary

linking the clouds

to the cried lightning

I’ve drawn to the trees

the kept whispers of knees

telling me things

that I rarely tell myself

things about nothing

to pray for

things that make no sense

things I want

more than things 

that do make sense

it’s all madness they say

you are your own

prime number algorithm

it’s all written

in the language

of slow burning plastic

dripping the hollows sounds

of what once was

or might have been

into the fast boiled oxygen

and the fast turning back

the fast dives into spinning

the shit that’s hard to swallow

where winning anything

is still a game and

is still beyond gravity’s lament

for the cages I’ve constructed  

in my padded room

I watch the spider

and blow pot smoke

while it is building its web

it seems odd angled

and disjointed like me looping  

between taut, taught

manic and serene

will I ever trust

any thought I have

I am not sure how my story ends

but I am driven toward fire

toward running

toward falling down hills

toward the edges of the abyss

I am driven to steal light

I am driven to find

where laughter seals tight

the gates at the mouth of Dawn

I am every place no one enters

I am the cemetery 

I am the stones

I am why you leave

some people alone

marking time like graves

like pieces of rain

spit from a crow’s eye

on the divide

where god is a myth

reverence for an afterlife

gets the white glove

and white wing treatment

I can’t stand my own mind

let alone the mindlessness

of waiting to die

I am easily agitated

at modern humanity

I am angry

I am not human

I am lust personified

I am someone else’s petulance

I am why erosion is pure

I am only here

to burn things down

I can only sell you

my empty shell

my memory of oceans

and the tides

where my goodness

has gone fishing

wishing old pennies

into empty wells again

EJR ©