March 12, 2013

steal what you can...

  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


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