November 6, 2012

poem 415 of a poem a day for 2012

voting for safety fishes and deadly bread

the deepest parts
I mimic, an ocean’s ability
to fathom a kept quiet
a kingdom
of mountains and
deep valley lore
of underwater places
that whore stories
in every world
without an eye
out, capturing Suns
at the bottom
of every humanity
we manage
to escape from

I understand
black fade pronology
and tactical home
invasion plans
packing vitamins
and methodologies
for the long haul

I used to hang pictures 
accomplishments on walls
now I hang absolute thin
butterfly wing versions of who I am
and each one of them 
hooks a little more life
eating krill in the traffic flow
of planetary bodies
and scabbard daisy cultures 
in the petri-dishes
of a social and 
genetic experimentation
that passes off as
city, nation, and state
ritual adherence

don't stop the car
leave him alone
don't give him a ride
he might be crazy
he hears whispers 
in the eaves
his bats aren't in 
the belfries 
they seem piqued
to kerosene 
and soaked newspaper tales
insulating old houses 
ripening burn-memories 
more quickly
he'll disease you 
he's petulant  
and a drive and stop
shock therapy waiting 
at the side
of any road
you happen to
pick him up on 
across America

somewhere else is beauty
the distractions sing through glass
long after swerving  
missing, hitting pain 
you will be still be jaded 
a stone deer in the headlights
drawn to numb pole boundaries
and knocking power out
along little piece of the wired land
emergency lights flashing
insurance companies
monitoring the scanning
where woe be gone 
is a brand of dreams
that is loading rights
to store munitions, water and fuel 
for the searches
for the rescues
for the allocations 
for the artistry
of surviving post apocalyptic breakdown of order
when every electrical means of stimulation
will have come off the street and a little closer
to where it may mean something other
than chumming the surfaces of emotions
to cull what Love can be baited 
with linseed oil and the dirty rags
sometimes kept, in a cardboard box of stain
near the back door of the garage
tucked underneath the makeshift table
that houses all the spare parts 
of monetary science's electrical blooms
for just such an emergency

my country, tis of thee
fattening up on every refined
part of me
the parts that
cloud the gravy
biscuits waving
eating truth made
with too much glue
with too many mouths
trying to hoard
all the lies
spilling out
in crumble bolus bones
shelter nominations to court
deaf jesters serving kings

hear ye hear ye all ye in the milk and honey package landings
on the piers with moorings loosened purse strings
you judeo-christian western civilized mob band of punitive danger
you are an entitled dark prayer
you tell skin what you will eat
you clean shit to shine something that smells like it used to
and you know you are all God’s soldiers now
shouldering holstered missiles on the down low
ready to shoot through crossroad blue shifting motivations
full of under achieving in the tides and the mischief game
of spreading blame to steal what night paints velvet with

under the yellow sodium sorrow of burning potash destinies
alchemy surrenders rust to the city scapes
four leaf clover-ing elements to their knees
in some sort of genetic farming of luck gone bad and
being that we are, so far 
removed from lettuce and bread
we begin to thirst for raw flesh only
bone on roadside attractions and
mobile kitchen bleeds
make it all pudding
in tied laces over head
go block to block
fighting to remember
the old telephone poles
perched with birds and wires
at sunrise and sunset
in colored sneakers
designating what now is sold here

at the bonfires of contamination
time and memory
mouth our certainty of wanting
we crawl anything
to know eternity
to find this delta tined and
silted with messianic sway passages
harbingers in corridor prophesy and
re-writable magnetic prescription devices
that eventually will be phase out
when the implementation of soft bound covers
seek out the hard applications
of bullets and hammers
striking at our targets
before stars leave
the night sky alone
and we are out 
shouting and counting
madness for country and
sadness for feeling alone
begging for somewhere 
between security
and the freedom
to atone for any
statistical anomaly
that doesn't match
our mythology
of paper righting 
the occasional 
wrong plot turn


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