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
EJR
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