August 5, 2015

I hear a here I am poem..

.
photo by Albert Arthur Allen, circa 1920's




I hear a here I am poem

alive I am 
another morning 
in the river city 
of uncle sam 

alive I am 
hustling edges 
filling my soul 
a fertilized rage 
into dovetailed rejoice 
love comes a-knocking, 
sometimes without me 
even ever knowing I am 
almost always there waiting...

the empty space ghost poem litany, leaves behind a glow 
like coal born too early to be a diamond, so it just burns 
until a beg of ash for sky...

lady liberty has her guns and nuns on the run with high 
heels on...



I seek the goddess
I might have Tuscan inclinations 
I wouldn't mind having you too



in my every move from tourniquet messianic tending of the 
window sill plants to the leaps of my faithless ideas 
gathered for more bread...where for art thou paternal 
guidance Caesar...which face of which mother have you to 
send us today...for we need shoulders and bosoms to lean 
and suckle on...love never needs us as much as we need 
it...happiness doesn't grow on trees...it is the tree...cycle 
through destiny just to be..right there where she is 
now...some have pithy prose, descriptive tones and bones 
to dress and shed in skins and colors...the eyes are a 
figure-head because they long ago ceded power to the 
nose to remember all that we did and will do...in this body, 
with or without you...I once traveled to see U2 in Europe, 
'Joshua Tree' tour...Bologna and Rotterdam were my 
favorite shows...how ignorant I was back then...a tad bit 
more innocent too...though young and still handsome with 
eyes of blue and a high sex drive...I could sure gloss over 
my jagged edges so everything could be a scene...rain, 
snow, wind and seasons, tilt-bright shiny lies hide where 
the knife gets in...more made pieces remembered, 
dismembered...bone cage harmonizing the barely held onto 
semblances of what reality may do drunk at the 
wheel...hitch-hiking the trains and stations of the poem, a 
page at a time with an open end return ticket from 
paradise lost, found and otherwise remarked upon, 
fleeting or not, stone carved wind invisible tongue gathers 
of the bombast of modernity, the poem remembers, 
sometimes more than the sum of you...



EJR ©

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