February 12, 2014

market bones to march hare...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

the new times poetry came

in newspaper jargon
spilled secrets
downed the hallway
from a drunken
dining room table
cigarette smoke
and beer swore
by crude joke
with pent up release
winging ways weighing
the least upfront cost

barker hearkened 
on every corner fare
you don’t have to be
pedaled, peddled or puddled
as an imperceptibly slow
drip effect of poison
grinds your roar
into the machine

this is your constancy
your clocks, locks
and tumblers
being spun
every observation you have
every poem combination
every asynchronous call
to the story 
of your perspective

how the outsides of things
fit you in huddled masses
you dare your eyes
lie there wishing
to be a nose
fishing for a scent
of everything
and infinity
to paint
with words

the thoughts you place a now in
are kingdoms, phyla, classes,
orders, families, genera and species
you are rote
and punctually
written when going
by your own inner workings

I too
you say
can be
dynastic rust
an affection willed
by starvation of self

to your madness
by the time you get to
the classified personal
you say in any form
be hung or pocketed

I am
a simple
core iron
a lust for gold
sold pieces
of soul
by silver

no matter the known
each life is a curry
of limbs that go
step by step
mortared and pestled
into a sentence
or conversation
balanced between
delicate fine grains
and rough hewn gleans
all you seek to feel
first revealing
sight only covets
while scent invigorates
where you place yourself
when becoming still
while emptying

ink to paper angels
chew through the pulp
of your dreams
demons too get stuck
in places
wanting you
to read into
the arresting smells
your day as memory
keeps looking for


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