November 7, 2012

poem 416 of a poem a day for 2012

desperation is exhale warfare

one, if by land, two if by nervous breakdown at night, three if the kitchen is to stay open and four waiters in masks if laughter is what still passes the membrane between spirit and skin on the way out, after having paid the bill

we are all
looking for keys
in the algebra
of the stars at night
jack of spade masters
naive to the need of bones
constellations weave
into ornamental iron
leaving milky entrails
beneath the waning Moon
puppet mastering this cigarette
with me counting sheep 
and soft chains outside 
the old clapboard look
of the vinyl sided houses
with their wooden decks
moaning in sharp breaks
against the deep sockets
of Winter grinding
against the land
where our eyes
used to be

we once we’re
without strings and
curtains certain of outcome
emotionally tied to the wind
lashing ourselves
to each ritual tight
tethered light
our little hopes
one by one
bleeding themselves
of every right and wrong
we have in our memory
by feeding our souls
sensation after

I voted for the President today
just to say I did not want
racist institutionalization
here to stay
though I know
holding my hands out
is hypocrisy 
is an exercise of drag-nets
tipping scaled socio-genetic
experimentation into economics
and new voodoos
raining masking agents
onto street level magic
as emotional smoke
and mirror gangs
become what books 
used to be
artifact currency

the human soul
I still fight for
is an easy street willingness
to sell a tale it tells
finding it harder and harder
to experience joy
without panning the gold
of a voracious voyeurism
that farms the empty
of cage occupant therapy
daring it to lean
beyond reason
or to stay mad
or nervous
or broke down
like I am


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