January 20, 2013

playing hooded sticks again...

photo by Associated Press ©

the rabies purification( how I grew to love the zombie during Winter )

has our species gone
to where pestilence
used to be
when we were
considered kings
instead of legions
of empty shells dancing
a disease vector
analysis by wind

the tried and true nature
versus nurture argument
has gone completely bad
the old cities try to keep up
with cable cars careening
over old rails, whose cars
are heads bowed to stimulation
by electric rain in exchange
for rust and the pain
of the shadow cultures
in progress

we are frightened by weather
we stay glued to broadcasts
we are scared
by tactical fingers maps
and when so frightened
we revert back to pacifist
moments of childhood
we had stained ourselves with

we channel time
tune it to what it was like
right after we were scolded
for something our parents
had not wanted us doing
we remember, we remembered
to jar that feeling tight
for just the right measure
of escape

the problems lie
with an allergy to books
and a dependence on pictures
moving sidewalks and
all the conveniences
of modern technology
sowing itself into boxes
of cut joes and does
and in this context
any enemy to culture
is much harder to discern
when all the mirrors
are effectively clear glass
in need of a shot gun

so we descriptively
burn ourselves
on these little staked claims
the stings, with different names
that make our spirits
sing for ways
through a dream
beyond sleeping
while awake

we learn to flow with
each despotic episode
of hope, the most safe
and secret
of our currencies
we breathe to breed ourselves
into a price embodiment
and thus, we for sale
we are marketed
for mass individuality
in the ways love
used to be

this morning
while letting the dog out
I had become drawn into the swells
stilled inside the rushes
of southerlies this morning
their sweeping moisture belly-
race across the state of New York
across a glacial dug landscape
of tilled fields scattered
with bleeding snow
a broken bottle globe
waiting to be a shaken hold
of arctic cold lurking
in the background
behind the billow clouds
a door opens
a patient blade strike
knows the Sun is not high
enough to thwart its incursions
so we bundle up
each thought first
squats, cupping fire

we collect our bearings
while warming our hands
on the tasks
of another day
with different needs to survive
with different ideas to revive
with different ways to deny
one’s self a soulful part
in the waning, receding
nature’s symphony
that used to bleed
so much more into us
then cut us out of the loop


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