poem 434 of a poem a day for 2012

painting by Michael Hutter ©

this poet is…

locked in towered languages

I know, I chain myself

to masticates of clever design

I finger trace every elliptical algorithm

that falls from the stars outside

the little stone windows I steal

into my humanity with

I play three card spreads

with the tarots of marrow

slipping truth into experience

between the painful moments

everyone seems to know

and how we reverently approach

our soul in silence

some might call this prayer

but I think I kill fated words

just to dare myself

into a hushed irrelevance

into a whispered persona non grata

just so all my ripe stays hidden

just so I can still burn

the reams of data

that otherwise occupy

my mind’s ability

to outlive somebody else's

construct of reason

just so I can still see faith

in the ashes of madness

just so I can still look at ideas

as if they were hair or nails

or body parts in the sentences

to be gathered, gently corralled

roped and catalogued into braids

collected for the found jars I use

to mark calendrical time

someday, when everything

has already been carried by rain

and has become either

broken or an artifact

someday when every thought

reaction or solemn reflection

of events just passed

are tided into gravity’s arms

love and the courts

of our innermost senses

of humor and despair

might find us all

leaving portraits and poems

in the electronic muds

clawing purpose and flesh

into digital realities

into flashing zeros and ones

into becoming Sumerian again

with dirty fingernails

and an appreciation

for the Sun

EJR ©