October 6, 2012

poem 366 of a poem a day for 2012

the torpid luster insanity of October 5th 2012

what a surprise
it’s raining again in upstate NY
it was such a nice day too
catching the Sun from skies blue
but then the clouds rolled in again
and the North winds dug for skin
and the leaves trembled
crying out weeping colored hangs
it is truly time to fall, they murmur
there is not enough light
to support the green
or even the reds, oranges and yellows
calling the razor-ed leans between
want every window open
and the doors closed
to the outside because we hear America    
saying, no, I am not a whore
even when we all know she is
that she wants more
more oil, more guns, more security
in the name of freedom
and kingdoms come
even us lucky enough to be here
are careening in her edge water
Presidential election year apocalypses

they are splayed on the 11 o’clock news
every day they mostly say it seems
you must be afraid America
that black man in the white house
don’t know shit
he was just the anti-burning-bush
which is why he got elected
and on the other side of this two dimensional coin flip
there is a robot with good hair
and a smile that says I’ll fucking kill you
if I could get away with it
as I am running for the scarecrow’s job

there is only so much
of this beauty pageant charade
I can take before I tune it out
and focus on Love or what I think Love is
not that I ever thought I deserved it
I still do not
I was raised on desperation
crawling for answers from the get go
it seems I can survive anything
except my own success
but sometimes that’s a blessing
and who is going to mess
with the guy peeing in the corner
laughing at himself anyway
you might even turn around to the sound
of a stream of urine
against the damp cloth of the ground
fitting itself into the rain
I think the neighbors won’t notice
maybe they will, but fuck it
I am the crazy poet/slacker/absentee husband and father
living next door and I like the landscapes
of my own fantasies as opposed to doing what is expected of me
I live for my own worded belly laughter
and I like tapas served on the small of a woman’s back
perhaps even the rest of her too
but that part plates me to my core lust
and thus my hands seem to always want
to be around a woman’s waist
but that is another story
as sex and the glory of owning your desires
here in America says , slow down , be careful
you can’t say what you mean
without sarcasm or a backdoor for the listener
a painted sign that says I have
strung the velvet hammers for chimes
hear the silence after awkward go swoosh

we celebrate greed in America
more so than anything else
pontificate it with bibles and
the keeping up of appearances
and we love on every hawk
that swoops in to pin down
the cure of rodents in piper songs
we pump disinformation
to the latest beats and tell you
be yourself with the only caveat being
you better look like everyone else
turning the TV off can help
but the internet is still on all the time
rendering clocks useless
turning time into the cage we damn ourselves to
I can fuck myself seriously over this
I mean who wants to know what the average rainfall is
in the southernmost tip of Chili
well I do, at least right now
maybe tomorrow
I‘ll want to know your number again
and I’ll fantasize about calling you
hearing you voice
imagining the fine material
between you and that small of your back
that I lift up like a veil
at an altar I want to worship at
or at least to be a point of entry
where surrender and conquer
become the same thing
breathlessly moaning without electrical aid
or maps or a language that means what it says
when saying anything takes me away from you
and a moment I’ve constructed to keep reason at bay


No comments:

Post a Comment