my soul is all fuck-it poems...

“Satan Malade”, from Les Diableries, c. 1861, hand-tinted stereocard

my soul is all fuck-it poems...

on a drunken walk home interrupted by tired legs  
I grew lazy in swirled thoughts pouring myself, pissed
there were these warm candy beats, 
treats meted meeting seemingly ready 
to jump out, in a coin-op parade of wanted...

I entered a cab stand to stab at being still 
I was waiting for the hack 
watching velvet black painted onto
sticky misty night filled rabbit holes  
the colors formed, bright blessing themselves, 
in artifice and nightlife...

I began eating through 
these selfish confections of my mind
trying to find a me inside you...

(bubble thought instant tea)

even in the smallest 
of northern river communities, 
there is a boundary 
where city takes leave 
at an edge of bleeding
at a place and time 
where seasons ever peel 
worn through what 
Boreal forests can reveal 
about our being here too...

(do they 
beg for words
in the eons 
and ghosts 
of water's cycles 
like I do...?)

the trees say 
we are ritual yes
pines take care 
to hold sentinel reins
each Autumn here 
shudder heavy lay terms 
fill the air with decay
maple and oak 
begin to sway
their becoming 
bare fingers 
reach and linger 
rooting the sky...

so I tell stories 
to myself, asking 
me, if the cabby 
is drunker than I
I press down 
the window open 
trying to be outside 
my life's linear ambulation 
and to articulate 
even if fleetingly so 
that I am tasting to know
the sweet parts 
of living too fast...

(this is the smile 
kept from you)

what I want to last 
are these dashes 
of dastardly daring 
the pieces of my mesmerized marveling 
that are taking hold 
of the something(s) to keep 
in my soul past these bones...

EJR ©