September 30, 2012

poem 349 of a poem a day for 2012

my ten penny stains

upon buckled sidewalks
the slick footing
serves to give notice
that blood is the conduit
in which time says
give me your bones
and I will give your soul
its forever

blanket heavy clouds
are pressing a felt fiber
kneading cold spread
finger beacons wanting
to stop quitting
to keep trying
to make sense
of anything

I am darting
between trees
early morning
as the Atlantic ocean
is raked over the Berkshires
to where the Hudson
and the Mohawk meet

this nest of souls
fits inside dolls
with a reverent
sticky adhesive
to water
here, the old carve
is the slow gather
the water gains
from the whisper

the rain embraces
the leaves
points them curved
toward the ground
where a little wind
curl little claws
of what’s not quite
reaching the ground

I go to theaters
and fill them 
with my torments
on days like this
when nothing is dry
and it is easy
to drift into a sabotaged
on Saturday
easy feeling
like a serial fool
trying to play hero
heel-clicking then wishing
he could have an answer
that made sense
I entertain
safe and reasonable
but always go beyond
my capability
to understand
anything but
numb when
slowly bleeding
to become hollow
or like any death
that is not proud
when inched
ever closer
to its abyss

this is
the same Hydrogen
and Oxygen
that might have been
part of some other Sun once
that is now just
an incineration
by eureka 
by a light bulb
or even
a lightning strike
on a night
when a thousand knives
are beginning
to travel the road
not often taken

some sounds
the rain makes
take place
where I’m not listening
or licking stamps
and dropping out
to watch the waving
blue mail boxing 
flagging down yesterday
email-ing today because
tomorrow is chained up
in my thoughts
in simple cycles
and atomic
that I must 
know my name

I am restless
writing clever
thin pieces of me
into shiny eyes
and lucid haze
masking Autumn
selling digestible
delivering the outside
to my shut in
I laugh at myself
then revel in sin
the macabre joy
I get from
abusing myself
sweet and sharp
and able to get in

October is when
I start climbing
the rusted fire
of the trees
that are
in the distance
marking the fog
as a long
durable kindness
that slow feeds
the bleeding
beauty that stands
at the gates
where wombs
are divided
from the outside’s
frozen desiccation

all Winter long
I want to be
lying down
in a comfortable memory
knowing all too well
what it feels like
when I am too tired
to go on feeling
so I disguise desire
with skin in the rain
and the little bits
of my soul
currying pain
enough to swallow
this is where water
has already cut through
another part
of the future eroding
painting pictures
of everything
I have ever been
on the concrete
so I can remember
to forget them again

EJR © 

No comments:

Post a Comment