September 7, 2015

mania, depression and thoughts, off tangent from

photo by Kristian, 'Cascade Lake in the morning' ©
found at

mania, depression and thoughts, off tangent from...

so poem and I are always having to choose between two 
diametrically opposed sides or possible outcomes, 
chance and chaos dancing for each second 
of movement within our off kilter-ed 
dog and pony show, we are
behind the makeshift stage curtains 
we've rummaged through 
the neighborhood for 
on garbage day 
to put up around each view 
of an act an eye plays 
desiring to be a mouth...

what much if anything at all are we thinking 
each second more that we live in this life, 
is choreographed by feeling 
by feeding into something 
just to be fleetingly and bleeding-ly alive 
outside the inside of a skin side taught 
we ought not share but notice 
if by chance the passersby caught 
in their hair, on their arm 
raised up, reaching for more 
of what they thought 
they saw...

I am sensitive to injustice, poem will often say 
especially when it comes to humanity gone missing 
are you ever getting beyond politics, poem asks
no longer afraid of being 
and exploring every mystery 
of me and you, poet 
every dark corner 
every bright blinding light 
every oops moment 
every broken too 
every crested tuft and limb 
every waxed on lift gone fallen 
every good thing we are ever learning 
every living thing we've taken to burning...

this is where memory lives to be harvested...

(conversation with poem, directly)

remember when you couldn't fathom swimming 
how it sparked nightmares of drowning 
and how we learned to swim so long ago 
at the salvation army's summer camp 
in the ranging iron and clay foothills 
of the adirondacks 
and how you went 
as often as you could...

are you distilling me as the potent self, said the poem, 
am I your future expressions of inner forms
do we both endure, are we both desperate 
for a love of certainties shared between senses 
are we a fleeting gold haunted by the scent of pines, 
are we deep glacial lakes steeped  
souls in rain, seed to tannins 
silt bottomed soft worn soles 
will we always catch the sky 
when we are thirsty for more time 
can age creep unseen upon many 
when a set of eyes the nose devises 
whiles ways around this canard...

moon sniffs the night, a bouquet late august 
early september, edged rusting imbibes 
she is hoping an instantaneous something 
comes along cup and song 
something she especially 
longs to drink in...


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