October 1, 2012

poem 355 of a poem a day for 2012

picture by Benedetta Bonichi ©

the Aztec calendar is another Clark Kent in love with a mermaid

this scrawl stone tablet
that has been stealing
time’s perpetuity
keeps creeping up
in waves of importance
as one end time
after another goes
by the wayside
we keep putting to a test
the thoughts of our being
a species that lives best
behind a curtain of knowledge
routinely seen as needed
to keep us from being
a careening close to an out of control
modernity at the wheel
our sanctuaries are all over 
an emotionless road map
of blank faces and zombie states
of consciousness spread across
the wheelhouses, dashboards
and rumble seated reins
of the 1st century
the 11th  century
and the 21st century
with their sorrows
and lament
for having borrowed
against the future
without a thought
of paying it back
with grace, harmony
or even acknowledgement
is a thievery
of our humanity
again and again
over time

at this very moment
are convening
with the truth  
to stow us away
with conjecture
and pliable emotions  
they are perfecting
what infects us with secrets
that can serve us
in coffee and water
on the conference table
outside the doors
we bend our ears low
to the nickel-ferrite
lining in the walls
and hear nothing
so we start
making up stories
that science has long ago
sold its soul
to keep the mouth
that cries why
from being permanently sewn shut
while the rest of us
become content
to chase electric rabbits
around endless clay circles

the academies
numb down
to please
this is how
the money changers
lease control
to every brand of thinking
they order disorder
inside of order
in order for the chaos
of consuming our souls
to be a slowly kept on guard
each of the little boxes
we are born with
tell our stories
as we fill with dust and pages
we are told to keep everything
we can inside these confines
and to start believing in TV
as the puzzle piece key
of going forward
just beyond
what is locked
and left behind
under the centuries
of piled salt

this is the gnawing thought
of a dorsal fin logic
who belongs to the webbing
between our fingers
could they mean
they were the sea’s
that we were once
underwater with wings
and all that we would ever need
to rudder a thought
sharp enough to cut the fog
of our pop cultural banality
would be endless teeth
and a way of thinking
for more than ourselves
we cut our skin
to paint maps onto memory
we leak our ink into dreams
we become fictional spills
we linger in all our exhales
we live for wombs
we become tales of mer-people
splitting off
our ancestral tree
some 6.5 million years ago
developing almost wholly unnoticed
except for legend and stories
we live in tides
that stay with us
when travelling lifetimes
by water and the stories
that the ancients knew
as any truth resorts to myth
in order to hide reasons we live
when we strip away electricity
and find our morrow
is still filled with a desire
that can’t be put into words
when we scratch and claw marks
into a story of counting stones  
and falling stars full of bones
telling a story in pictures
of when time began
and pinches together
the Universe
every once in awhile
flying the parabola of this cosine
cradles the very ends
of what a smile is made for
that this torch
from crouch to carry
is a star that we can
follow home again


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