the moral
lighthouse of a shipwrecked life
the
coming to pass
of
chances taken
or
left at the wayside
of
my humanity invents
a
new kind of wheel every time
only
I use them to roll away
all
the undesirable in me
to
burn myself at the outliers
to
rack my civilized brick
and
mortar tendencies
to
erode in the rain
my
raw rasped parts
my
neon concrete boredom
blinking
its puzzling decisions
amid
snaps and crackles
each
one a twig underfoot
the
breaking of habits and bread
in
the neo-cortex-ual shedding
of
responsibility
outside
of pleasure
where
I find the keys
were
once broken bones
sure
my memory wants to hold onto
to
its DNA encoding protein sequences
which
pieces of sunshine and moonlight
happened
to have seared themselves enough
to
a moment to smell what remembering it
has
burned into something more instinctual
the
light patterns in the cranium synapse forest
are
what maples are doing too in Autumn
falling
into fires with jangling bottom chimes
I
have three pennies, a few dimes and
a
quarter that is bicentennial faded smooth
hope
has moved into my sweat
doesn’t
want an exit strategy
because
like me, it has adapted
to
living on the edges of things
do
words come
when
the song is the silence
in
the absence of seed birds
who
left in August
who
have flown southbound to perch
and
pick flowers along the way
to
the Pampas grasslands and Valdivian Forests
of
Argentina and Chili
the
southern Springs are calling
their
ghosts are in magnetic play
they
say hollow bones
and
deep feathered yearn
can
stop time
when
the wind and the warm air
take
hold of the sky with kites
and
the sweet rise of something else
that starts
to bloom
this
is my effigy to the Sun
the
caramel decay
of
deciduous sugar bleeding
into
the hot iron call
that sayslet me
mouth the words
Summer
lady
come
back to us please
we
have jarred you
and
need you
to
keep us through
your
dark womb again
we
will sizzle and lean
into
your absence
we
are more than willing
to
let the shadows shape
the
silence
which
is why we bring pine boughs
inside
our homes
to
commune with your memory
to
eat what used to be green
while
the dry cold desert
of
Winter is raging
outside
the caught tide
of
frost and glass
I
am walking slowly along
with
my few coins
and
a well of wishes
in
my pockets
tossing
overboard
any
passing ship of time
I
can from the cages I make
with
bread ties and
some
illustrated words
in
blue and black ink
pressed
maple leaves inside
the
writing
done
with diminished light
and
scribbled crooked letters
and
reversible destinies
are the many
parts
and many tales I hatch
for every reason
beyond explanation
inheriting my lust
between sips
and old shells
in
the coffee
I
search in vain
for
belly wane Moon
She’s
on the other side
of
these endless clouds
socked
against clay and shale
their
smooth fog
is
my desire
back lit
enough
to
thank Her
with a faint glow
I thank Her
for
all that I can let go of
for Her infinite number
of
sharp tiny embraces
releasing me into the old vines
I
am bending low enough
to
find myself
cupped in Her hands
are my ears tuned enough
to
hear the birds
that
might still be sleeping
as they remain
in
the brown grasses
and
the royal seed courts
of
the annuals of October
I
am hoping they can
still
make a sound
that
might be near enough
a
song of mine
so
that I can write
without
thinking
without
asking for directions
to
find somewhere
someplace
someone
inside me
that
might be warm
enough
to sing
the cling
of my hands to
EJR
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