October 21, 2012

poem 393 of a poem a day for 2012

trembling courage with a bag full of sticks and the rising Dawn

I stand in the quiet cold
of a late leaning October morning
I am getting ready to play golf
early, early on a Sunday
there are just a few cars
whirring their tires
against contracting asphalt
shivering a background silence

the belly pink of the west
is in the skies
and Jupiter alone
is left wondering
where Venus went
his bright gold pierce
is preening the East
above the clouds
as Apollo is just now
beginning to find
enough light to burn
a new day into 
a rendered invisibility

I seize where
I want to go
where diminishing light
of the stars
and planets
slide into day
groaning each
of my caught breaths
that are falling outside
my rolled down window
as I pull into the parking lot

the crows squeeze into
the crepuscular rays
and spread out
over the river valleys
I am playing golf this morning
because it allows me
someplace to get away
from my own humanity
long enough to give me
a jumping off point
departing from ritual
or worry or responsibility
handy, hamster wheel excuses
and spun infinities
where I leave myself
bleeding, bitten and turned
wiping the congeal
of not being seen
as I steal into 
another piece
of my rebellion

I stand to walk, sure footed
after my partners have hit
slung bag, shouldering a jaunt
while whistle-walking off the tee
certainty comes into focus
without any reason to be
without the chronic ties
exhaling with any thoughts of mine
except where my next shot lies
this sense of freedom
gives me fleeting meaning
like the Sun
playing pierce volley
most of the round
against gray bottomed clouds
back-dropping falling leaves
into ghost browns and yellows
that deceive my painted eyes
into thinking it might be warmer
than it really is

and I think
of higher angles
of capturing myself 
to somewhere
my higher angels went
to somewhere 
rapture has purpose
as I am hitting 
down on the ball

I suppose I could go and be
productive and interact
on a day off from work
with friends and family
but who am I kidding
I am too aware
that I fight myself
into lonely places
I fight to play myself
into the many faces
I want to be selfish with
where I only want to be
confined by the refinement
of my madness and anxiety
as my isolation knows
what I am capable of believing
in any of the excuses
that the mirror sees
are just the images
of my broken parts
needing a whole way out

you see
I am better
in a desolation row
of planted memories
along any road
that hope still bisects
with longing enough
to find something
that catches my eye
enough to stop and
look and listen
to everything
my stomach desires
without lacerating
my soul too thinly
into a feeble series
of holes traversed
one linked to the next
folding membrane
after membrane
pretending every pain
can be filtered out
from tee to green
and actually succeeding
with a par or birdie
when selfishly retreating
from the world
for a few hours
of thieving myself
from the constraints
of time meandering
through the pines 
and other sentinel trees


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