 |
headless statue in Forest Park (Pinewoods) Cemetery
in Troy NY by vanstermonster © via flickr
|
the
chronicles of boom and bust lobotomies
you
are bitten with self-affliction
a
friction for a life
you
don’t want to succeed
you
are much more comfortable bleeding
onto
paper as you hear your worth
in
a murmur of blackbirds
at
a nearby cemetery
they
call you to walk inside
the
rusted fences
and
capitulate light
gnawing
at answers
under
a cloudy sky
whispering names
for
the dark, you seek
the
permanent you
the
mirrors see
over
the soft muddy grass
and
receding snows
you
cast out what is broken
in
a daily reverse vitamin regimen
you,
sometimes, are too careful
thinking
as a hoarder will
that
someday you might fix
the
fallen pieces, fashion them
into
something beautiful with words
poems
are thirsty, like souls
for
easily replaced parts
messages
in bottles
the
rare hearts
given
over to tides
like
rust seeking the Sun
slow
burning your humanity
with
desire in a blindfold
this
town has old steel mills
painted
desolation on sides
of
clapboard and brick buildings
full
of thieves and promises once held
one
drink at a time, anything
to
make you forget where you are
when
canning a ready-made life
a
labeled specimen divine
you
hear bibles on street corners
say
we are all worthy
when
paying the right price
so
go ahead Edward and question faith
simplify
your emotions
complicate your skin and politics
you
are meant to divide
every
treasure from its raw ore
there
is nothing more
beneath
mitochondrial playgrounds
made
safe with rubber,
sand,
metal and wood
your
hopes are there
in
little grains that stand out
under
glassy black sheep daytimes
your
hallucinations are unseen
hands
on the wheels
driving
model trains
into
explanations you starve
to
trade for information
are
you fed the right kinds of lies
are
you happy here with disguises
do
you mean to say
you
are more than
black
wool sheered
something
exposed beyond
your
own patterns
to
another poem
yes,
you are afraid to look
at
your fingers and toes
how
many can you have
can
you cut one off
can
you add some
do
you need them
to
count the things you carry
the
weighted things
the
heavy things with hearts
you
want beating for everyone
in
the caught glimpse shapes
those
blackbirds make above
these
old stones
and
worn out numbers
the
smoothed entrances
where
one, like you, can go hide
from
being found alive, roughed up
in
a world that wants to know
every
deadened expression
can
survive being let go
EJR
©
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