October 9, 2012

poem 371 of a poem a day for 2012




armillary spheres, cheap hotels and 45’s

I have emptied my pockets
manufacturing broken pieces of luck and opportunity
stringing them to the odd machines of my emotions
like the holes in the walls before I got here
what man does not want his cock sucked
I suppose that is one of the reasons I write what I do
for it is easier to masquerade my intentions behind crazy
than to come out and say hey baby do you mind going down on me
there are so many ways to abdicate your humanity these days
modernity has been overtaken by the slot machine effect
put yourself in a place that has only little chance of success
and you can bless yourself with solitude standing at the bus stop
buried in the newspaper and cutting time
lathing your eyes to behave in ways
search parties might behave
when looking for personal messiah moments
little pleasures to treasure and stow away for when
I can afford a fifth and a quiet room

after a thrift shop junket
that puts the sail cloth
on my old tattered notebooks
mining the wind for direction
I still think crazy is cool
a way of avoiding
but every now and then
I just want a warm place to go
where the music stops and
I am left to my own devices
left with my own will to sabotage
left with what can be heard in the constant caroling
of the lice and bedbugs that bite for attention
if only to say you too might be hidden
and have fought a good fight today

but here in the respite of my blood spit journals
after I have eaten some ramen noodles and broth
and put extra clothes on because I am cold
I leave the faucet running low
and pour myself a wash
maybe my manic words will drown out the cry of more dictionary armor
maybe then I can watch the spin-gravity-winnow-shapes
of a future without me in it
maybe legions of calendrical monks are willing
to take the place of the Sun and Moon
but the vanquish ghost of nearly good enough
always end up singing the astronomical amelioration of my destiny
so maybe everyone can read that too, like I do
in the wooden grains of my old timbered soul
that has been gradually exposed
through weather and deconstruction and neglect
through old papered walls, thin as tissue and hard not to hear
the neighbors’ disgust for themselves and what’s on TV
as much as they hear my rumblings and utterances
pacing the room trying to find the essence of anything
that doesn’t require my alchemical soul
to be melted down
in iron chambered pots
maybe my soul is a fire that just wants
the thresholds I am willing to die for
maybe the portal gain of gunpowder
was once thought of as an elixir for immortality
maybe today I will know better
and the cheap brass casings
littered about the floor
with pornographic images
are telling the story
of my late night drinking and shooting
out the window for the stars
in a way I still think
I can get to them
so that maybe they won’t shine
through the glass anymore
the way the streetlights do
when the sodium, sulfur, charcoal and saltpeter
bleed for a longing to be part of something
beyond the reach of electricity, neon and need

EJR ©

6 comments:

  1. nice...tight piece....really your first 3 lines hooked me good...also the thought of shooting at the stars toward the end there as well...and the need to be a part of something...nice...

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  2. A very interesting poem - quite brutally honest but always keeping a kind of stark beauty too. k.

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  3. I think I did something wrong there - it's manicddaily. k.

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  4. The voice here is so evocative...it was easy to follow because it is so interesting, like the pied piper but not to any place harmful. No instead, to a very intriguing place. The first stanza made me laugh in joy and in surprise for its honesty and openness. And then the dance led all the way to shooting for the stars. Awesome. I enjoyed this very much. I applaud your goal of a poem a day. You are obviously very talented. I'm glad I found your site.

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  5. those last two lines, especially, are killer. there is a harsh light to this, but you tell it so well..

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