December 27, 2012

euclid and the tinder box river of flint crossings

photograph by Enzo Martinez ©

how much to bargain hunt for poems here 

looking to be open game, Winter storms
the crusty bread beneath my arm,
sees poker chips for fingers,
my synapses crackling with an itch
the wind climbs and claws in
to any bare skin it can
while I am bending
sure stepping from the car
now parked in white cotton rain

I watch the snow fly
a rag-a-muffin with blue eyes
I pocket the splendor of a flannery
strolling the streets
in hollow pointed odd gaits
I stop and turn phrases
I am what people say
about shaving when
folks like me are misbehaving
as close to clever as they can

no tipping
dripping our hand
into antique irony
and hung metaphor,
old river towns are full
of metal smiths tending coal fires
swaying bracket come-ons
between rust and exhale
the pounded shapes
humanity takes
between forge,
fastened and wood

here, we slow down words
creak their wares
language myth
each unhinge
each divide
each gale
we hang
wonder for sale
every side of glass

when it snows
we stick inside frenzy
we cling to every fallen self
we pause and fold
we etch reflections
spider their reaches
become hoarfrost-ed
and corner framed
pinches of time

tufted snow gathers atop
old verbs, noun fish and connectors
flourishes for breathlessness
here, where we languish
in letter arrangements
repeated tried and displayed
every look back
along old alleyways
is steeped with quick
emotional commerce 
songs about the shopkeeper 
sometimes still living
upstairs from the storefronts
with some piece of a home
stuck inside it’s sleeping jingle
and buzz-less neon

between a bunting and fences
between compound lenses
we encapsulate each step
we take coin to coffin intent
infinities become like flowers
following lent and
flowing from rented hearses
overheard knowing what it is  
that dust seeks to cover

why do we still bell doors
downstairs from where
we live our dreams behind glass
while leaning inot the dark
hush gasping for ass to cover in ash
chimneys stoke open
envelopes of quiet outside
the warm huddled insides
of their esophagul 
brick and mortar
shelter bedding down
for the storm

late night burns
my steps onto streets
I turn a tumble open inside me
that is locked and closed
like a light that has been left on
for me to see that
while it is still cold outside
it seems just warm enough
to peer inside for where
hidden poems may lie
while I am waiting
escaping in the scrape
of a plow and eating
to the other side of din

all this snow
caught hunting
the quiet too
arresting memory
under streetlights
and silhouettes
caught looking in
at what being crazy
still gets you
by way of credentials
and each autograph
of forget written
with a fine tipped
permanent marker


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