January 7, 2013

the fine cloth, 2 yards please...

photo by Michael Corridore ©

waffle iron red, in herringbone smoking jacket

I am writing love poems in languages of silly string theories about past pain and currents of vain deflections, neglecting, rusting

my goodness stops
at the near edge
of what talent I possess

I can entertain small groups

gathered for food,
drink and perhaps
passionate conversation
if none of us become
too drunk and horny
too willing to share
our provisions
right away

these groups must be
prone to know vulgarity
as a deep art form
that silly can be
a necessary vitamin
even if in a mostly
broken bread form
the pope
as well as
the paparazzi
are always
on their knees
they always
have someone
to please

so silly can be
a righteous thing
a belly laughter
a human expression
at its purest form
all the places
our hearts demand
we start from
low seeded palm
to heeled whisper-
songs with handfuls
of soil tucked
for just such

Love is woven inside
and all throughout
these sub audio fields
Love frequency-maps
our leaps off
the deep ends
the shallow mining 
of our worn dark
our fissures
our light
our rooting
into what
Love also finds
in the concrete
outside of windows

and as I age
I am broken down
by clown rules
and regulations
disbelieving in sentence
structure for a faith in
throwing my sneakers
over telephone wires
to know to keep on writing
while wanting to plum-bob
every depth I can
pleasing myself

and at the tattered edges
of any salvaged self respect
I maintain a rodeo skeletal
sinew relationship
of bare minimums
show-casing royal jelly
and beet pollen
in a fondness
of growing herbs
drinking fortified teas
and counting syllables
scraping odd smiles
for a much longer
view of how things
burn into one’s soul


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