aging my perspectives 'tween vinegar and wine...

aging my perspectives 'tween vinegar and wine

hobgoblin rain, third to first person poem and back/ what 
the fuck is this, a title?/ I don't know, maybe it's the first 
line, all jealous...yeah, old paper mill towns harbor mad 
and quiet poets in the bones at the bottom of rivers/ we 
dragged our fingers in this silk mud to collect them by the 
barrel full...

on the slickened 
algae covered 
wood planks 
I almost fall, 
slipping 
damp dark
clinging to everything...

outside, confluence 
of rivers cities eating the curds 
of forests and range 
clay tonguing time 
vines trees flood plains and eons 
watch the ever slow peel 
of mountains to the sea...

all the weather 
and mythologies 
have names and places 
assigned second tastes 
and nose bouquets 
are for those 
you burn fire 
and bleed with 
in and out 
of standing 
signature or 
stain 

are you current 
here in thought 
thinking back 
thinking ahead 
a theater piece 
what you are living  
what you are 
and have been 
what you yet might be 

when do you 
see destiny 
as only a word 
for those 
not willing 
themselves free...

do you give up your shackles 
and know fertile ash 
awaits your rise...

could I be 
only an escape 
or your demise 
you let yourself say
breathing in
a hand organ night 
June first 
full Moon 
cool air
socked in 
thirsty grasses 
and weeds 
never say please...

you leave out ales 
and cakes 
for the hobgoblin rain...

you know 
never to leave 
your clothes though...

because 
the seasons 
are watching too...

and bare skin 
is so pleasingly 
easy to carve 
the look 
from here 
to there 
and where 
you and I 
might have been
or will be 
when sleep 
eats the gaining summer short wave dark sides 
smells of roadside attractions taking us in...

wanting 
we are 
ever wanting 
more...

EJR ©