October 13, 2012

poem 373 of a poem a day for 2012




just like Lady Macbeth's

in the Northeast
every turned up collar
and tucked handed pockets
curls into yellowed brown regard
into edge fields of corpse fallow blooms

the maples and the oaks
take turns bleeding
recede into the cold air
of the Earth turning
fine tuning out our apathy

over-population
the fall of money
the hording of gold and guns
and oil puppetry for profit
huddled masses are asses
on memory foam cushions
and faux leather

the smell of anything
is reduced to an aerosol spray
printed with a warning that asks
will you know your way
back to the garden
if you’ve never seen one

I don’t know much
about anything except
that I do not long for this world
unless it’s in her wide hip slides
grabbing hold of anything
that can still please me

scent portal yourself
she says, leaning back into me
her muscles undulating
as I roll my eyes
like bones in the dark
trying to play craps
in the back alley-ways home

the TV is on
in the next room
a flood of barrel rifle politics
is bored for sale
past the keys
and into material dissolve

there is a false positive
of heavy importance
and earnest starvation claims
while trying to drive cadillacs
to the levy agent’s office
motivation in this modernity
is thrust and slow lettered speech
that let people feel you are grateful
for the way your undone
might fit into a sly smile

a pine cone is waiting
for the forest to burn down again
cobbler elves shoehorn magic unseen
tying laces to kite infinities gathering
you want her on all fours
crawling in Goddess calls
and then I realize
as I wield this fantasy
full of physical desire
that surrendering means
skinning the bones
to part ways with destiny

perhaps it was Brazil
that made me certain
of human beauty's attainability 
through amalgamation
a million shades of brown skin
in the cackle fire of early Winter coming
in the killing frost
bring the plants in
hang the flowers in rituals
of remembering Spring
I take hold of anything unseen
that feels as if I could know it
by groping past the canvas
for a memory
for painted eyes
while I exhale 
names of disguises
one by one
until I fall back asleep

(…she said repeatedly
in a Saturday cartoon regularity
you’re no good
you’re covered in apathy
you were a mistake
a clutch of promise gone bad
squeezed lightning burning
my skin into your soul
you are too early
to find anything but holes in the dark
the words you speak
will always be a constant emptying
like the wind that is searching
for something just out of reach
just beneath the cover of time
in shallow rooted cries
you are to become only
the questions after question in the clouds
where the language of reason
will always die before you do…)

left wing guerilla warfare
and right wing terror
are conducting 
a murder of my persona
bit by bit
spittle and wipe
repeat and rinse
in the paradox
of voice-boxing my quiet
with tiny light emitting diode braveries
by my side

the horsemen and the plates
of silver supper time
are corruptible veins of mass distortion
in the radio waves
mind control frequencies
buy hate populate gyrate
blind frenzy myself
into the currencies of worms
devouring the floating value systems
of my desperate humanity

paper here
is a promise to borrow
the future to pay for today
in order to guarantee
generations to come
must be born with bullets for diapers
in order to guarantee
generations will be
weaned on carnage
and smothered
in available cheap dry goods

the plastics and the mockeries here
are brightly colored and able to sing
from the knees of every flavor
I am willing to eat along the way
to my sold soul genomic mastery destinations
toting the hinge-less boxes of turning rivers
into deserts to feed a thirst
that doesn’t ever want to see the Dawn

stuck in the house 
of bleeding stairs
I am falling as water
to daughters in covens
that are shadowy figures
breaching the dark
in broken bottom steps
that ensure 
each fall forward
I lurch into 
is another bottom

appliance ghettoes
spirits held in old glass
I drink liquor and blow my breath
into a fog onto the mirror
I call out the witches
who still drag curses
into the sex of every object I handle
the puddles of pee
beneath the stairwell
is a reminder 
that I’ve lost contact
with other rooms in the house
that I've with contact
with years I’ve spent ignorant
to my needs 
that I can no longer 
control my bladder
when I am afraid 

as I gaze outside
an accordion folded future
passes the present again
and bends itself back
to when horses sped past
the train of invocations
linking salt to the stations
beyond the reach of muses
I well up in righteous anger
and weave both arrow and blade
turning the tides in the narrow channels
of kept watches of the seas
into red killing cries
I hear the prattle of chains
and see the silence of Pirithous
still writhing
his eyes fixed as stones
on Persephone’s laughter
and the crimson stain of her lips
and I realize that my hands
are the same color
that they are filled
with the same desire
and that they
might have never been clean  
just like Lady Macbeth’s
before she ever whispered
for the council of death

EJR ©

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