October 17, 2012

poem 389 a poem a day for 2012

mapping the continents of my emotional dementia

without mentioning
its vast sweeps
time fits me
to what
I weep for
when I
pick locks
that are

it is as if my eyes
have become useless sockets
in the turn paper blades
of reaching into
sulfur oxidized pockets
the pan-caked make-up
rust pats itself
in my clumsy Braille
painting fumbled desires
as if it were as simple 
as hailing a cab 
at closing time

the dead stars
and their red bursts
are old burns
against the yellow altar
of night beyond the black 

the underworld
does not want me
with bones for eyes
and tight fingers
clenching my soul
wrapped in chains
growing weary
and oh, so quickly
a very, very old


1 comment:

  1. self pity or whipping?...awww...good you say 'sometimes'...but your reader likes you, inspired by your images, waiting for new poem....