October 16, 2012

poem 387 of a poem a day for 2012

hearing or seeing or speaking no evil

at the bar
across the street
from Albany Med
long enough
to stay immature
and outside myself   

nursing a drink
in a pinwheel fantasy dream
with timely perusals
I unzip the clock seams
and keep repeating
tomorrow and tomorrow
what do you know of today

when will I be first in line

I can’t decide whether
this is all a cruel joke
or a vicious lie
why does Mr. TV
tell me to repent
for what he sell me
as necessary and bent
by the screaming vengeance
of capitalism’s saviors sent
so that by time I age
I will know so very well
all the names that
I am so willing to forget
on my way to hell

my daily mantra
is taking shit
and crying mirrors
Edward, I say
do you see why
do you see why
do you see why
no can know
if you are righteous
because someone
just willing enough
is not enough
in this ritual
that arrests
ruptures immature
outside one's self   

anything to drink

I ask out loud
while I think inside
do her eyes seek
the pleasure like mine
right now the alcohol
is grooming my motivations
my inhibitions are slipping
past gravity’s fingers
and into the dream
coming back in the tides
a fantasy lover’s message 
coming in clearly
behind closed doors
to market what runs
cities and nations
and fumes their razed walls 
and raises handfuls of citations
you get from being in places 
like Pamplona
bleeding out from
re-opened wounds
just reciting another language 
just fighting yourself
for hiding out
in the alcoves
in the bandages
in appendages
in the diapers
catching the shit
falling out of you
as strangers pass time
as they might
in hospital hallways
and bustling street corners
giving no pretense
as they fingerprint
their eyes
onto your soul
on the way
into your mind

I thirst for what’s beneath
her guile and charm
with her arm on mine
guiding me past
the busy chatter
at the stool counter
where every style
of posture men 
might wear
when being 
on pussy alert
comes to call me
to bear arms

I think of something
to say to myself
under this smile
pausing to burn
out my eyes
man, these Florence Nightingales
are especially fine
when they want
to save some
of life’s stories
for themselves
to bind me
ink to page

like the one
being written
while I rage
and am bitten
by the coffee skin
and doe eyes
she walked through
slowing down
in front of me
no more
than twenty 
minutes ago
and says
she likes my goatee
do you want to go to
your place or mine
and now that I do
she says again
looking into my eyes
I am worth remembering
and knowing why
you were so willing

while you smiled
so bright and blind
to get inside
this ride
this fire
this surrender
this sweet 
to please 
this woman
with an ease
in her voice
saying may I
be your baby


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