May 4, 2013

...and they're off...

massed head Saturday in May

the other side
of the tracks
is where
the morning
will wander
milk filtering
bright greens
in angle angels
of Sun

over the slate roofs
across the street
I get lost in thoughts
of wide shallow seas
long kelp algebra
long penances
bow palm prayer
bow palm prayer
I swear to god
I won't ever do it again
and pick apart a part of myself
that can be hidden
with what I wear

these sumptuous
early May mornings
in the eastern mountains
of North America
take hold of you
like no others do
each return scent
of insects and the spaces
in between them
are wanting you
and your soul's material
for pocket ballast

I may always be
a window shopper
a pill popper
a pot smoking grenadier
riffing for light patterns
inside joyful accidents
cups of cheer shared
emotion bared unexpectedly
perhaps in mailed box surprises
that drop a person to one knee
saying stop time
will you marry me
to this moment
call me part memory
and part collective consciousness
tell nostalgia to stay away
the bingo halls are harking
for light bulb popping sounds
barking chance after chance
fixing science to the ground
rooting in the clay
dry crack packaging
and seams, sewn where
the deft ghost ships
slip behind flying buttresses
so you only see
a floating head
a talking me

today is
a magic
numbered day
a four leg day
a day of smelling newspaper
with a thirst
for the promise
Summer brings

I hear the wind
talking between
lilt and lift
saying to me
take sail

journey to here, poet
you are a jaunted man
you are a junkie
for sensory perception
as you flip the jib
to remember faces
and forget the names
you’ll get clear passage
in poems
a lighthouse
speaks with
in order
to lower
the odds
against you


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