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| Photo by Alex Hyde © |
Jacob Marley gasping this midnight’s approach of the torch born
the air alone
is not enough
oxygen is for hunger
burning fermentations
lamentations are for the coven leery
dulled senses
lemming and wildebeest singularties
this is how we lie
in storyboard forms
soft to hard
drinking western lean
we are
beneath
the skin of things
pock mark ellipses
we are
mythology’s surrender
neatly adjourned
we are
an out of view sanctity
divinity is
art is
all of our expressions
what we often are
our scent test variations
what
is not trusted or talked about
what
we keep adding to the tales
what
we weave conveniences in
what
we intended to say
as
if we were angels
waiting
on line
for
rationed gasoline
cocktail
napkin truth
and
dirty cloth cleaning
we
are waiting
for
the spark
the
“hey, where is my innocence,
where
is my profit
for
keeping hold
of
a humanity
that
is an endless hunger ”
hope
junkies
pray
for gifts
tree
peddlers
chime
between stoplights
and
shop closing traffic
firs
might be the easiest way
to
fleece to monotheists
not
once did they question
why
time folds in on itself
this
year is the same death
the
same womb to birth
the
same slow words
heartbeats
and
exhales
poems
that say
we
are old glass
and
tidings
we
are regales
we
are
what
we steal
away
into
chorus
begging
give
us bread
we
are bodiless
quench
our thirst
with
why life bleeds
give
us thrive
despite
our ritual adhesion
to
coercion, rags,
sharp
sticks and scars
the
basement is full
of
creep, paced velvet and hide
the
roof is fine
I
say to myself
angels
desire
to
be human
humans
desire
to
be more
of
something elemental
or
fundamental
infinite
desire
immortal
molecular strange wires
a
sound sent silently smiled
an
abyss leapt
wishes
real when dreaming
where
we went looking
catching
reflections
time
and
bone
cages
sage
weed worn
with
haint names,
robes
and archetypal crowns
three
kings and something
we
know
when
we let our soul
drive
the bus
Pan
at the overlook
says
feel how
we
careen
and
seem an endless variety
of
pride versus humility
we
are
the
quiet fertile smells
the
cycle complete
the
neatly arrayed
cookies,
milk
and hung laundry
EJR©
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