November 5, 2012

poem 414 of a poem a day for 2012




when they come to take the guns away from the white folks, in America


the broken doll face harpies will be singing 

gourd sniper Mafioso songs
wading asymmetric rows
a candy palace plasma field façade
teeth marked eroded vines and vortices
in the ley line newspapers
of a paused thought day dreaming
head nodding off to where lonesome
is a road that seems another paradise
gathered in the spent battery lust
the arterial ghost limb articulations
that find the pathways
with the least resistance

gesticulations are mountains
left to climb habitual crutch product desires
immortal inaction reined whipped gutter steed
side-walked street leaned jerked into rages
keying howls to all fours never taking rain
out for a drink to watch time slip
in calendar pages flipping a daze
occasionally remembering youthful vigor
while getting older and more fantastical
while saving up for cosmetic surgery
for rose colored glass introverted spectacle elevations
I don't sleep anywhere near regular hours
so I can’t fall from my dreams
to a bottom that gravity won't ever go to
a place where rusty spoons and grapefruit justice
make me defecate all my worms
that writhe between ideas
good and bad

silvered curriers and deprives
metal plated service in American election
cycled meat grinder class warfare by subtle knives  
entire industries of vacancy has got me depressed
dressed down in bent slow carved rivers
I am always angry with why
prospecting gold in bled soul star dust
buckshot defining, what I can feel
past instant gratification
something that universal knowledge and
three dimensions know might hold my humanity
to this inhumane world
but I don’t know where you may find me
as I am still old tree, old animal
old empirical thought  
limited by mistrust and
limited by fire
limited by abdicating safety
to occasionally grow old into dignity
and onto a portrait of designed processes
with blood worship and saints on the walls
even the brilliant molecular velvet of night
knows mankind is kept limited to recycled inefficiencies
even modernity with its abundant technological wealth
gives anything still precious, a paper mass and
ordains a pope in neon on every block
says convenience is true ascension and
comfort in coffin literacy is staying alive
long enough to breed the blinder logic of divisions and
someone's version of god as being the best and
any country or peoples not with us and
not with enough food on the table
are purely what nature had planned to be
victims of someone else’s evil symptoms
something has to be lacking
in their cries, town to town
in their faces and races
with clowns at every creed able to
use any of us as a lantern light in a jar
at the near end of the world

so as this world is pushed and pulled
toward a constant collapsible art
a constant accordion gamble
draw bridging for air to rise again
we are black hole embassies opening  
at the electrical grid’s slow siphoning
moths have started echo locating
where the light might be and
society’s kneaded fingers will be
knuckle dragging massaged lingering
into endless lines that we will moan from
having become the constant mouthed hunger
and this will be given away to
what I suspect will become
an organ donation farm culture
known as the last tax deductions
of the new frontiers

the pall bearing survivors
will be poisoned
by a mythology of quiet
an exposure to radioactive audio refuse
where sound proof refuge
is just another sold ticket to dream

to ply skills or make money
when I can’t feel my hands wrap
around anything that breathes
has me beaten
without wings as I seek
a hidden in the trees

I can
make you smile
but, it is only
a moment of illusion
for faded glory
deluged by photographs
like pretty paper and glue
montage-ing short stories
better than anything
I lie to myself with
in every language
I can

mankind plants flags
denudes betterments and
buttresses the tremble of concrete
against the weather
face planting a right now
prevalence for untrained eyes and
dog worship

we dream
of walking on parade
our collared junky holidays
are huddled
waiting for any train
coming in the station
in the easy plastic 
mechanical bionics
of a greeting card 
emotional purgatory
on the next ride
outside ourselves

I am mostly unfit
squeezing zits by candlelight and
radial starvation
my loose tattered strives
against patterns are holding the ups
close to the vest as the downs warm bathe
cutting and bleeding me beyond scabs
to remind my clothing to watch my skin
to watch my bloat garden poison in begins
blooming the scent of never-finishing anything
sabotage oozing out of me, no reason
no will, no way I could believe
I might be able to do that
or that or even that
because even if you thought past
this life and the next, that I might be able
to endeavor
to quest
to be blessed
by the confidence of community
I’m afraid you missed the needle freight
because I know I won’t believe it
as I keep picking wounds and
keep licking lapped pools
slowly tying in, a keep of everything to infection
a keep of everything to wallow
to chained thoughts
to stayed coursed self-degradations
to slumming low expectations
to wearing rise as a mask
to thinning it
to atomic absolutions
to mean it so no one can see anything
other than each curl away from personal glory
into another story of tumbled weeds

America is themed parked
outside the anti-crime lights
away from the fences
of the dark's open windows
woven with hooded figures and
sleight of hand, circled salt rituals
pulse humming tangled meaning
that are worlds away from a naked
we sometimes, prefer

I prefer to be running away
with my hands full of stain
wet claying and saying I will
I will make something
out of my life, eventually
sometime later on
when nothing is on TV
when only death past irreparable
can hold tight to me
can pour sorrow into last gasp
weather system symphonies
into last exhale rites
made in a lucid duking of rebuke
that is on TV
these oceans of electro-cathode ray nipples
are always on and everything on them
points me into hallucinations
calling out class shame fugitive skin tags
as I look sideways, at the storefronts
tucking myself in against the cold
knowing the jingles by heart
whistling them as I do my part to get inside
the other side of the glass
in a here and now nation
of the free looks and home field advantaged
of brave contractual consumer naivety
of straw poll weighted manger locks
of fit for the lottery taxed idiocies  
for we, the kings and queens
have come to feast for the please and
a longing for understanding  
we know, how good alone can be
when purpose lies just beyond why
and the slow tide of candles and
broken faces emptying our emotions
tells us to eat anything and
empty our courage
to eat each wound and
empty its observation
to eat each day
as a chased diversion while
emptying life, one word at a time
scrawl finger clawing
rubbing raw, jawed stoned
against certainty and seeking
the dark corners of our cave walls
our circular patterns 
our artifice of remnant vision
our bones seeking strings and cages
fleshing drama from our base intentions
to a forest of samaras
each waiting
as some kind of Hermetic crown
selling toeholds to hope
that follows humankind
along these precipice pathways
under the dead light of stars and deserts and
the limestone caverns, turning wheels and clocks
to basket catch daylight, saving time
pierce shafting, while dialing in 
across the tongue rung floor
we each look up and 
feel how water might know 
the way home from here


EJR ©

No comments:

Post a Comment