November 29, 2012

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


1 comment:

  1. the foibles of proof reading many hours always able to fetch laughter...que sera sera...