November 25, 2012

poem 429 of a poem a day for 2012

jesus smells me hanging 

on the front lawn
drinking pink flamingos
he can't say why I came
except for the same free drinks
and music, loud enough
not to have to think
so why would I want
to be carry on baggage
tow-telling stewards
my inner most tale of woe
seeking the soothe
and wearing velvet of course

I chase roll paper divinity
the shiny armaments
in green and red
with a velvet lean
between what burns
and the fade to black
smudging coal ash
with the smell of linseed 
I gallop across stone
and fields, clung to moisture
harboring the scent of fire
under a slow rain
ready to surrender
in the near hang of snow
awaiting the call
of another yule tide posse

and I go back to that baby jesus
with his lawn ornament crew
oh yes I do, even if, to
bless the mess that a nest can be
oh yes, he still smells like a brew
more than likely because I peed
on him last night, feather craning
my neck to drag the dead light
of stars through the clouds

it was warm yesterday
much warmer than today
today feels as if the cold
is here to stay, though
considering how prognosticating
the weather is a much more
hopeless cause than writing poetry
for a living, who knows,
how long the cold will stay
these darkest sixty days
of the year

here, I am, all
northern hemisphere weary
deciduous forest bound, clearly
full of the spine arms
reaching with me
eyes like baskets
that are always hungry
for what everyone has to give me
when no one hasn't asked for anything yet
how everything that can be, is wet
clay, I say, did I make an impression
or did I just make you forget
make you question
was I ever here
was I just
a lush linger or fear
was I just
a thought grabbing
hold of feeling
turning toward
anything bright
with words and 
a ceiling

I commune with
early holiday decorations
the ones that go up
so soon after Thanksgiving
I play their carols
in my mind
I sing their all's well
I play their games
I look for anointments
through the wilds
through the sparkling
electrical desires
of my own humanity
being written as a
brightness seeking 
some sort of meaning
strewn over shrubbery and conifers
in wavelengths and frequencies
untying the mathematics 
that define all
the ways that seize
the things that please me

I chose whiskey tonight and
am now staring into every one
of those lights trying to find
the ways inside time's constraints
where wishes are fishes
and the truest of lies
are nothing that's missing
when I close my eyes


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