June 17, 2015

poem sniping snippet me...

giant papier-mâché head circa early to mid 1900's

poem sniping snippet me

in a perhaps 
or could be future...

a local constable 
or examiner took 
the call 
from a singular cafe 
in a little river town 
at the crossroads 
of anywhere 
and nowhere 
in particular...

he is careful 
as he walks 
and surveys 
the scene 
I am 
the one 
on the left 
chalk out-lined 
pastel yellow 
my body no longer 
a function of me...

the symphony begins 
low beckons building 
piano led

banks, became like medieval monasteries 
in these modern dark ages/
after all Camus said 
plague is still plague 
and needs to be fed/ 

by keeping time 
a dependent 
contextual reality 
you dress death 
as anything other 
than what it is/ 
body once caged 
aging decaying bones 
and eventually 
back to rain

 the lords no longer castled to heavens
instead they tethered themselves 
with miles of underground utilities/ 
sub surface pneumatic transports 
and cave port of calls 
all free of the sky cancer field generators of daylight 
of course/ 

late June was calling it always remembers me 
soft frontal zone prance 
and glance febrile dream slabs 
where I am now amidst mindful bodies 
slain waiting for new host souls 

the air is filled with acrid and aromatics 
smudge pots flank sacred tall column edifices 
giant papier-mâché head-ed ushers 
grotesquely distort themselves 
into fairy tale type heroes 
I might have had once 
when I was still 
a child of my mind/ 

the coda is a mask theater pollen advocacy 
choral shadow figures lurking 
bumping the night into forms 
one might imagine as wonders 
and murders/ 

it once tolled 
the lottery 
with its large bell 
it has told us 
of each significant moment 
in its ebb and flow 
its uses charted 
in the local historical society/ 

many decades after  
it turned belly cup forge 
ringing out the nadir nude
of a moment ritual-ized and heralded...
it became a kill box 
a lone silhouette
two canisters of ammo 
requisite camouflaged 
matching stones, mortar 
and painted wooded, 
the cupola copper nailed shutters 
were stenciled with crescent moons 
someone drove eyes probing flesh 
mine was on target 
soft enough to be invaded 
with a purposeful ending...

(underbelly entrance cross hairs)

the conductor now 
subtly implores 
the choir to song...

lead us out 
his eyes seem to say

where for art thou
core and seeds 
do you still inherit 
by wind and deed 
do you still merit 
each moment you feel 
life coming and going 
by way of bleed...?


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