March 18, 2013

turning toward the rain...

 photo by Atlantys © via Flickr

edge walking the words

heavy limb-ed
laden with sulfur residue
burning portage dreams
to acknowledge morning

this does not always
make me want to smile
the tented peddlers know
I never buy, I steal
small arms, rat traps
spring loaded anti-personnel devices
the kinds of mechanics
I torture myself with

leave me maimed, I say
cripple my self-interest
I am ignoring happy thoughts
when I show everyone 
I’m down, full of revenge
I get away somewhat cleanly  
leaving the exteriors
minimally damaged
my extremities weather
watching the Sun slide
across old wooden panels
calendar fingering
the morning dust
on the mirror
on the desk
on the laptop screen
my mind is covered with it  
a forgotten comet
filled with a stilled life imagery
an icy cold unfurl
thick with frost
preparing Winter
a going away present

why do you write, she asked
I said it was better than dying
though not having done so before
I couldn't be too sure
I wish I could paint, I said
but I'm only a bleeder
hypnotized by the ways
words can form images
in the wet clay we keep
spun inside our minds

perhaps you write
to breathe past
the doubt you press
against yourself with
maybe, I said, I never wait
for the mirror to answer
I reach for another glass
another pass or puff
another cradle or laugh
I keep to myself
candles play tricks on me
I told her, they make shapes
and throw them against the walls
ask me to identify them
under all the bright lights
that modernity seethes with

I find it best
to hide my humanity
instead of illuminating
any reasons for joy

why do I sin this way, she asks
the foremost reason, I tell her
is that I am a self serving saboteur
like a snowman made
from shaved ice in July
a prophecy set up to fail
she said, then, the joke is on me
if I continue to see things this way
and even if I think I am right
this may very well end up being
the only thing I will ever need
in order to write


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