November 12, 2012

poem 419 of a poem a day for 2012

the birth of a ballot-less why culture is a death angel pilgrimage world

I am an x-rated soul
but I didn't do it
I keep saying
to myself
I am evolving, revolving
to solve the protein geometry
of pronoun speak
but who am I kidding
outside my own
fractured mind

I had already committed
crimes of broken glass
I did what compels me
like the Sun smiling the dark
to rise again each day
with chance and maybe
woven into gravity and
orbital masses celebrating themselves
as if bestiality were celestial
to everyone besides me
as if humanity was something
more than observable pointed
references of land, seas and sky
to my knees down covered in mud

all religions begin
with craned necks
early alphabet starts
in voyeur vesper
emptied seed bird songs
it is a warm scratched fever day
in November as I amble over
the tannin floor relief structures
they give, they sway
fingered daylight
through leafless reach

no I didn't mean
to strike into words
what raw numbers used to be
but I did though and I refuse
to stow away my arms and legs
from peace and terror
from filling jelly roll moments
from spilling myself into frilled clothing
from every thought of an unknown
from every stone unturned
from every wired clothes hanger
from every alley way inviting a reverse birth
from the quiet truth of Rachel Carson
who is still right and counting chemical days
in ways that thin the shells of every egg
crying a golden yolk of held fat happiness

I am waiting to give
anything I can
back to the Moon
especially when She wanes

She has always wanted my eyes
wanted the decadent haze of industry
the magnetism of newspapers and televisions
the mouth-blister brigades
the stories hawking every pyrite allure
every believer lured in with sin
and my soul is just one of many
that sings fuck you all
fuck you reviewers instead of doers
fuck you, to those, like me
who use words to hide their disdain
fuck you all in mirrored vanguards
who prance down streets with every sense
plugged into electronic escape
with your souls trinket-ized and
ready to end somewhere
in a dusty velvet box of memories
fuck you America and
your false sense of gallantry
fuck you western thought
fuck you eastern powers
who adopt western rape techniques
but salve it with a philosophy
of material attainment and
the laws we deserve
written in algorithmic chains
fleshing every fancy sort of blindness

it is all the same molecular thin eggshell death
waiting to happen and whether you believe
weather can deceive what happens to any of you
should Humpty Dumpty America fall
into the enemy of a graceful benevolent bending
of the sky back to clawing diagrams
of ancients in the ground

in Autumn we are always
brushing aside the leaves
marking the wind of another day
we are further away from paradise
where once we thought being lost
was stating I, in the slow tide of glass
we are now just past
wavering reflections
of what used to be
recorded hisses and wails
among the songs between
the sharp leans of light and
the prayers for meaning
and release on our knees


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