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
©
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...
ReplyDeleteA very interesting poem - quite brutally honest but always keeping a kind of stark beauty too. k.
ReplyDeleteI think I did something wrong there - it's manicddaily. k.
ReplyDeletestrong stuff!
ReplyDeleteThe 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.
ReplyDeletethose last two lines, especially, are killer. there is a harsh light to this, but you tell it so well..
ReplyDelete