January 10, 2013

where the poems have skin, a blade cuts in...

photo by Roy Green ©

bottoming out, with twenty clowns in the car

last night howling winds
carved the loose panes
into a rattle language calling me
they were saying
please hold onto something
that will stand when light ends
where we can reach you
through the glass
as you are
looking ever-looking
for answers
in strange places

I spend countless hours
buried beneath words
as if their pliability
will be new limbs
new clever eyes  
new severance pay
I am surprised by anything
found dumb enough
down enough to be
a numb-ed away pattern
a viable self loathing
I can see

it is not that beauty escapes me
it is everywhere even my own
mirror, mirror bit
from tranquil Love to invigorating
exponential explosions of it
across wide expanses
of the Universe
into increasingly smaller worlds
we find inside of atoms
between electron veils
and valence shell wails
every moment just seems
another diet of worms
to nail a poem onto

so you may read me
much like I read myself
wanting answers to eternal
and to temporary questions
questions that I have, myself
asked over and over
with nary a satisfied answer
not knowing is a painful way
to express desire
in a world without maps
and while I keep looking
I mostly stay silent
peering out of windows
for something that changes
more than my perspective,
chemistry or underlying make-up
something, I can use
to evoke laughter
at the expense
of my happiness
and a world
with nothing
but open doors


No comments:

Post a Comment