March 5, 2013

hometowns hone the honey bells...

Troy Gas Light Company, Gasholder House, Jefferson Street & Fifth Avenue, Troy (Rensselaer County, New York) photo courtesy of Library of Congress

rogue planet blues
I walk outside, cut myself
on the sharp Sun
hurt my eyes
every breath stings me
the air is nettles and thistles
there are sounds beneath  
I struggle to hear my thoughts
over the mechanized monetized world
whirled about in intricate mad whorls
product placement buyers sellers
damning evidence of a Ponzi nation
taken hold with greed as a commandment
there came a day when the mounting evidence
showed a dam ready to burst
above the reach of our fingers and cries

there are sounds beneath things
sounds of an archangel cavalcade
sounds of parades and
the higher beings we pretend
we are to ascend to
what we are to become
according to the literature
when the breathing stops and
custodians in jumpsuits
push brooms, mops and pails
cleaning what chaos remains

we leave shadow blooms
pistil and stamen stains in Spring
like our innocence did in Hiroshima
memories of anyone like me
are easier to fold back into batter waves
scrubbing the concrete, covered feet leave
an insatiable hunger driving
the wheel of a big city bus
on another morning route

I don't mind the world being a lonely place
as I stroll for a newspaper and another cup of coffee
I bring my own mug, I have a theory
about unwashed hands and bacteria flowers
everyone wants to get inside you
yes, I may seem a bit dirty at first glance and
that very well may be true, people pass me by
without looking at me in the eye
I seem to smell bad too
I can't smell myself the way I used to
too much nose candy once
has taken that away from me
days and nights screaming
an eagle’s thieving voracity
I take off my clothes, sometimes
sweating out all the conspiracy theories
I can bite in six degree separations

I stop to sit on a stone ledge
with its topped iron fence
on route 66
high on a hill above
what once was
a great little river town
bristling with history

I see the news in pictures
framing words between lines
demarcation finds our flags
says get behind an ideologue
know that Love can save individuals
but it cannot save your world

we the people are mere insects now
just trying to stave off death
for another day and another cup of coffee
we multiply unseen hungers
something that may or may not materialize
we are hunting for that lurid Summer
no matter what time of year it is

this town
this poet
is no different
from you
though I imagine
you have
better scents and
a better sense
of direction
than I do


1 comment: