December 2, 2012

poem 439 of a poem a day for 2012

give us precious, ghost cotton veins

in the soft
and warm realms
where memory
always goes to
you can feel
desolation beyond angels
you strain to hear music
beneath jaded flesh
you feel the wind
you watch clocks 
carve rivers
into old valleys
you call clouds
make us all
ornamental bough bends
evergreens spending time
leaning toward dark
watching humanity’s fray
peel, unfurl
breathing every bouquet
between a birth
and an endless
mortal wound

you see this
from the inside
at first, behind glass
museums calling
for your soul
like bill collectors do
you chain-collar hope
to the signposts
when your futile becomes
a beautiful necessity
you calculate survival
into mad algorithmic machinery
you mine each exhale
weight the rain
in cellular death
to catch bits of ore
a soul needs
to bargain
for a meaning
you may have
checking out

perhaps you say
eating the dark
looking out the window
for every shiny part
keeping you alive
that excitement
was always meant
to be confined
to the single mantra drone
at the bus stop
muttering kites
and disappearances
we ought to own nothing
and to give each of us
Willy Loman on a stick

we are calling
into life sick
of most things human
with our pockets
turning out warrants
for the rabbits running
our investments
we faux-contest 
they are not
infested with a rot
because, even with every 
distraction turned up high
we do find life is 
systemic, anemic blooms 
industrial broken thrusts
and no longer 
do roses 
for more 
they make


1 comment:

  1. This one has a brilliant insanity about it!