April 27, 2013

NaPoWriMo 2013 # 27...

 Joel-Peter Witkin ‘The Poet’ 2005 ©

dysmorphic-constant interrogation of rapid eye movement futures

rear viewed
history is
a self contained
prisoner of war
ground forces
cults of personality
tiny issued warnings
of humanity needing
tissue septicemia
the cellular cyanide
is sewn beneath the skin
between the artifice
of my smile
and my informational
control mechanisms
the punch out ticket
is the ride
to santa claus
candy houses
in the woods
every heaven
gated with a departure time
that leaves certainty
for the folks
I've left behind
I keep a mirror close
and hearts far away from here

I feed the cage
I am the animal
I swell with
trial balloon
after trial balloon

don’t tell me I’m lying
I already know that
tell me what you’re doing
what words bleed you
upside down
right side
of the coin
that comes to rest
with a shoulder shrug
and a guess
we are done

sheriff cruiser
lights low
waits billboard
long night
for speeding
ain’t a thing
for folks dreaming
it’s velvet
all the way
from midnight
to Dawn

but someone
some human being
with a higher sense of purpose
than is necessary
for a common good
maybe even a poet too
might have their
two hands on the wheel
destiny as a destination
they might even be in a hurry
they might not even pay attention
to the blanket of stars
telling them with very old light
on the other side of safety glass
how right in the moment
they could be

if it isn’t all about
the will to fight for
the cut-out allegiances
the spray bottles
the pills packaged
the fresh frozen nutrients
the microwavable locally sourced
vaporized inhalation vehicles
then could it be all about
the recreational to occupational
personality enhancements
I will sing
aria after aria
to the dark inside me
that this isn’t my world
and I am not
a leader of its pretend

“sir, you’re stopping my progress”

no license or registration papers
attended with and given
over to the pinned badge
cloth buttoned shirt
matter as much
as the maps
in my eyes
my dirty eyes
filthy words
and soft love
looking for something
closer than it appears
to my pockets full
of scavenge and glory
I have formed
a serial adherence
to the appearances
of causes long
since lost to me
and it is these things
I keep cleaned
of memory because
the best chains
are always the ones
I put on myself


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