February 28, 2013

murder is a place, death is a journey...

photo by Rick Hartford ©



is liberty the flight away or a statue-bastard word

with a clear view
this kingdom is a nude place
that reveals who we are
the glass tells me something
mirror, mirror what is nearer
my madness or complete apathy
have I become a dried food
exchanging scents for salt and
thirsty flesh drawing bridges
to and from what I choose
to remember

dreams will come
swirl the lines
color the patterns
history is purposely vague
it is why, in the morning
lurching traffic and the sounds
of school children make their way
through the radio short waves
they crackle, cackle and dance
with Mahler and urgent calls for donations
I turn it off when the music stops and
bask in a post industrial wind and battery sound
a micro-mechanical kelp sea of silence
every noise like cotton in my ears
gathers with associated words and images
in a progression of wars
pointed guns and regress
the best modern men can get
is walled cities understood

I get that I have to dress the part
if I want to punch my meal ticket in this land
but right now I don't mind collecting
5 and 10 cent bottle returns to pay for fuels
malt liquor is a quicker way to walk
cemeteries talk to me
they wait with their own language
by the entrances, laughing
knowing the crows could see before anyone
that I cut off my arms
I’ve put off begging as long as possible
and even though, I no longer trust my humanity 
it doesn't mean I want to live entirely by scavenging
nor does it mean I want to die like a king
it just means that breathing
is the best I can do today and
tomorrow, tomorrow creeping
at its petty pace
will simply have to wait

EJR © 

1 comment:

  1. The last five lines ring in my ears with the carillon peal of a better tomorrow, singing in your tides.

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