October 14, 2012

poem 376 of a poem a day for 2012

crawling for my grottoed Callisto

hibernating hive culture
super organisms
breathable membranes
folded velvet
rubbed fingers
felt little fibers
thoughts are part
of networks
tools tooth taste
time records
memory inaccurately
I bear
the gilded weights
of my shame or guilt
like blood longing
to paint my cuts
into some kind
of permanent temple
of erosion and
tidal pool exchanges

stars explode their hearts
all over the involuntary nature
of how all material
comes into being
by becoming other stars
and shaping a perspective
of everything between us
the computers and wires
the concrete and venal byways
the tall buildings and
the spread quiet 
of their comfort zones
the sofas, kitchens and Styrofoam
holding the heated preparations
the food and durations
the pinwheel algebras
the Shirley Jackson lotteries
the taxi cabs running the meters
of paper chances sold
so even, if I were
to ask the driver
to get me nowhere fast
he still turns around
to say, sir you’re already there
why not open the door
and get outside yourself
why not dare yourself
past apathy again
why not trust yourself
through all your clever disguises
all your modern play-scale virginities
through all those monologues 
and diatribes that don’t surmise
as much as they, thug-alley
your compassionate logic’s demise

no, I say to myself 
leaning into hesitation
with my head against the glass
and my hand on the handle fast
the big game is always on
and I have to play 
to win something
in the orbital sweeps 
in the minor to major chords
in the songs I hear singing
when I play for a desire to belong
when I play the patent rhythms
that chain my denial
when I play myself 
masked to each stage
I wander on, like Autumn
weaning a warm licking wind
receding back to the tucked light
bleeding ways to get back inside
to where magic seeds itself again
inside every constellation
that is waiting for a name

in that place
where my perceptual constancies 
are my worn mistakes
are my ritual births
are my skies 
I have cast into
and over and over again
where my ripe is sown
with every part of me 
I've netted and eaten 
so, that someday 
I might be passed
as scat scattered 
into a future
present with the past
to see if I might even
adapt another form
before I learn or not
what can keep me
from being burned
into the norm


No comments:

Post a Comment