November 13, 2013

herding the instincts...

                                               photo by Edward
merry go round mad calendar bell rings

we gather, tannins and time tribal-ized
we are worn skin
stretching and searching
to begin an ancient poem
in articulate bones

when Winter arrives
Autumn attending
we are lathed imperceptibly
by the increasing cold
we are boreal forests
we too, die in cycles
dive weighting life
towards capitulations and rain
we only come slowly to know
each life is drying
tied to shadows returning
late leaning into the sun

November is
a belladonna angled fall
a silent smile of language
part invention of the eyes
trying to smell
what gravity means

are we an inherited
ageless orbital massing
of want, desire and passage
do we need words
almost to pretend
to understand attraction
birthing, movement and
trembled temporary instillations
are why we cut our wings
are we any less or
more important than
earth air fire and water
as we gather again
and again tannins
and time tribal-ized cut
and sewn, clothing our honing
homing in on how
we wear away
each defense to love

do we sacrifice a soul
to molecular ice
do we mark season after season
with reasoning only
to have a box to put things in
do we make believe
do we live in the snows
dreaming of maypoles too
dreaming in singed hair
the scent of repulsion
embedding our raw
into lead glass
onto painted window stories
for those of us who never learned
to read or write in a capacity
beyond the pure simple blood measures
of our eyes and nose partnered
in a sensed criminality

are we just a quick fingered unseen 
a long conan intelligence 
beyond what can be known
do we often leave ourselves
with a love no one wants
do we do this because 
we cannot quantify this
by price vectors and
advanced emotional corral methods
do we exhort for isolation
do we, in drunken pissings
tell the world
to bring on the electric fences
the neon side show messengers
the whisperers and harlequins
do we just seed reed-ed roes
when slowing down because cops hide
behind the roadside signs

can we smell what says let go
empty our dark outside
as we gather worn weary
wondering along a clocks razor-ed edge

we tribal-ize time
leather and smeared faces
we bisect the day to approach each midnight
we ride the miles for anticipation
we are hands on the highway
driving our thirst
crawling to get inside
what can be fertile


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