March 24, 2013

portage reported...

photo by The Brit_2 © via Flickr

to thieve a vicarious dress 

this horse carriage has odd spoken circles
there’s mud in the lane, the driver says
soft screams in the rustle of leaves
receding snows, in a tiny raked hexagonal memory
my fingers are desperate to hold the reins
as the cold is to hold onto Winter’s reign

that old man is already dead I said and he has fallen
atop the maiden womb and soon too will realize
she is going the loamed way of worms

tendril roots are ancients roads
shows in back alley carnage whispers
the gated mechanized humanity, is thirsty for more
for a supper under high road Suns
are we up to no good
the songbirds must know
they have remained silent
their cages wait to stain 
our lack of stewardship

we scrawl each a home
a poem of desire
carved onto stone
every soul is divine and on fire
everyone wants to know God
every bible is personalized 
every sanskrit, a hieroglyphic
every digestible emotion
is squeezed of nutrients
as part of the rent here

we canvass animal waste 
we throw with haste
when we find what words form 
in anger over denied holy passages
between the high heavens and
the low down hells
humanity sells as part process
and part someone getting more
with you getting less

we sometimes steal into material havens
clipping our little comforts
like electricity once did
supplanting kerosene lanterns
stringing, near the sky
miles of veins cut from smiles
held in stretched bows on greasy poles
street to street, we play for keeps
in crackled elemental codes
we hum to familiars and seek the dark
in every generation’s burning time

the driver says, almost there sir
shall I pull up to the front or
do would want your usual departure
of aperture eyed depiction
I tell him we are all fictional iron eventually
some of us a powder horn or goatskin wine
a piano keyed, turning old wood from doors to dreams
ushering the other side of every payment not made

so yes driver, pull around to the back
of this house, near hill and dale
clear of woods with ancient tree stumps
wanting, ever wanting to swallow the light again
allow me to spy maiden Spring’s flaxen hair
her dampened belled anticipations
her covered exits, all my wounds are faced with sin
my buckles, belts and buttons, all the things I hold in
so I may slip past reason, turning myself into folds
of wheeled yard fabric, everything life has gathered me with



  1. ha i like your closing words to the driver before asking him to pull around back...great rhythm to this one as well...and def some thoughts to ponder throughout....

  2. I'm very much enjoying your poetry. I love the tones you create with your particular use of language and object. Very excited to see what you turn out for NaPoWriMo.

  3. I love your use of language, the vivid and elegant yet edged imagery. Gorgeous work!