December 22, 2012

poem 462 of a poem a day for 2012

jazzing myself for your eggs

so we hail taxis
lurching in a neat
pale invisibility
behind glass,
motor and intention
we are after
what midnight has
between death
and the Dawn

we careen to the nearest
greasy coffee joint
full of grit and bones
wanting leather 
and bright light
a gold trim 
a smoky hazed
speckled formica

in here 1962
is stuck on play
as if it were
the orchestral movements
of guardian rituals
late night eating
and drinking long looks
back into just happened

night here is like
a watchworks with eyes
caught and dazed
by the smell
of everything
where we finish
crawling for dreams

music drifts
beneath each thought
between bites
between savors
between sips
between every tiny birth
and brewed little phrases

bending to words 
slow melts hearing 
past bombast's 
busy bloomed din
amidst alcoholic hunger
in the right circumstance
of curl sanctuaries
finding enough warm
stowaway poems to hide in

white noise
washes away
all but the pieces
of us that remain
building each way
the world seems to say
something new
every time 
we slow down
and carefully chew
all its food
for thought


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