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| 1868 illustration of Alfred Beach's concept for pneumatic subway, artist unknown |
do I break take
or steal my soul
by piece silver and china
from feast table...
I say fuck it
pluck it unseen
beneath smile legerdemain
a slight pause then sprain
strain myself revealing
the stain of what I want
to be seen versus felt, tasted
or smelled as real
is there meaning inside of words
that the herds have not heard
humanity brims with progress
slams glam and slap-sticks mankind
knees for please cycles
sycophant and hierophant
off in the wings
we or you the public
must be intoxicated
slated for renewal
and contractual employee-ship
which means to say
please get paid
doing something
that pleases
you or someone else
dream state solid state technology
is how you sleep with nothing being everything
lest you already rest your whole hole
fragile glass tubes are saved now
for pneumatic transport
body delivery and message systems
today's souls are waiting
to be filled with white noise
with what matters of others
that only resides alive inside them
when acknowledged as real
yet hidden from view...
the horses are drawn and carriage-d/
and it is still snowing when out we set
past midnight with lamps a-blaze/
January can be cruel though not
in an unexpected way
I was ready for Brigid's tits
to be my mouthful
of reconstituted soul
yes, I bristle at the wearing
of too many layers of clothes
warming myself with thoughts
late May and asses in play
though soon as most days
near noon caffeine on wane
I clean up from soot and fantasy
wander in any direction I can
for any drink of any undefinable
that begs me to remain
seat, to be seeded
and seedy
needy sometimes too
hope is an old clause
in our exhale patterns
our rule of laws
some of us take vitamins
and keep physically fit
while others are satisfied
with subscription lotteries
to spirit futures
and adjudication by divine halls
some others still play
the alleyways and underbellies
for keepsakes and noses
I paint my eyelids
horses of a different colors
I find when sleeping
the eyes can lie
and be lied too
much more sincerely
than any other sense
of who or why
I am
here with another poem
to burn my hands
a wet clay warm with
EJR ©
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