October 16, 2012

poem 385 of a poem a day for 2012

standing at attention

the hairs on my arm
ring with a resisting
of the static insistence
of my fleece being pulled off

it is a cold raw day here
in the southern edges
of the northern forests
the smell of tannin fall
and all that rain
is this constancy
of an exit body death

Winter is nearing
in a damp embrace
I sit and tap keys
I scream at myself
for being past 40
all the time
I am mapping myself
with no direction
without ever knowing
when to stop looking
at the border-less beauty
of my cardinal sins

they are all lined up
like poems in their Jesus licks
like envelopes stuffed with ideas
until they form a second skin
a breathable soul with holes
so small I can’t feel myself
being bled to death through
their passing remarks

time and space here
is filled with weightless inane
as the cash register sings
each sundry bell sold
ringing up the exotic eyes,
lips, tongues and limbs
that I want
that someday
I might even grow
into when nodding
to nap where
I might go
hand in hand
on a whim
to a place
that I already know


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