October 26, 2012

poem 401 of a poem a day for 2012

franchise dreaming escapism

be it baseball
or some other
ritual tribal
identifying factor
we use to sharpen
our spears
we are always
in mirrored halls
in ghostly gathered
rooted frenzies
taking hold
of blood thirst,
and revelry

a veil thin wind
wears you
its sweet linger
is the certain
smell of death
in late October
it is everywhere
edging closer
to something burned
imperceptibly slow
so as not to let
anyone notice
the parade of ash
to our brittle
sashes sewn
into the tides
into our bones
our rattle harmonies
we throat blade
against each moan
of our individuation

you lift and lean in
kissing a portal sweep
of time and calendars
grinding coal to what
the smallest of diamonds
mean to electricity
its wiring
its connectivity
its counting
each clock
as an out
as a run
as a game
to be
won or lost
by rhyme
in a circuit
in a switch
in a series
with one side
running out 
of time


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