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| photo by Brent Moore © via SeeMidTN.com |
stealing the river of art in every conversation
convenience
stores
nail
neon light
over
the crept shadows
of
early morning
there
are many things
in
here worthy of my palm
but
it is the conversations
or
lack thereof that turns
me
toward picking up
the
fallen pieces
of
other people’s blues
every
poem I write
is
a painting
of
someone else dancing
an
installation
or
imitation, I myself
see
me doing
the
commemoration
of
how time stops to see
how
any one moment can hold me
a
snow globe captured fluid stasis
one
line, one brushstroke
one
pirouette at a time
every
calendar has a day
worn
with an instrumentality
of
something that has happened
or
so I think, as possibility
reigns
over every day
in
the shaken world
artists
will wait, in line
like
most folks often do
for
someone else
to
break their
emergency
glass
I
always want
to
lift my head
when
pinned down
pointing
it toward
where
I think
the
stored parts
of
my humanity
are
hidden again
sometimes
it’s in another bag of money
sometimes
it’s in the slow fuse of my will
the
burning holes in my pockets
the
vesper trailing exit careens
jilted
single note melodies playing off
each
other through the old wooden door
its
painted enamel metal signs
loosening
in thwacks propelled
by
the heavy-duty spring load closure
I
stand aside and listen
each
time the door bellows
little
poems, little songs
little
lamentations and salutations
little
dips and defers
as
the customers
come
and go
each
with different sets of eyes
different
articulated desires
to
be somewhere else
we
always want
to
be somewhere else
while
loading up on caffeine
to
work another day
in
the mine that is
keeping
yourself in
the
framed blues
of
America
EJR
©
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