October 22, 2015
turning a wrought and wooden wheel press...
turning a wrought and wooden wheel press
what she didn't say, was that her eyes had fangs that at
first looked as if they were nasturtium blossoms...
the thrashing continued out of view, I coiffed my bones
in a long hairshirt, candle in hand and took to a quaff of
iron rich amontillado on my descent
I could no longer look to linger in the feeding frenzy
modern human civilization had become...call me what
ye will, a loner, a stoner wading the psychedelics,
mostly hooked on mystical what-ifs, enlightened shit or
the stuff we discover as kids in the attics of our
venerable relatives when shipped out to be a-visiting
during summer break...
am I saint want-to-be and sinner wholly, yes I believe
in not believing in too much lest I forget how to smell
you after the rain, will this scent explain to me why wet
clay and a spun wheel make what your fingers did
tracingly, seem still to be, a part of me and my
mind...are we vessels meant to hold more than merely
memories we have completed, with scenarios made up
to feel something outside the perspective(s) we may or
may not have gained upon observation and interlude
coinciding with random acknowledging of where the
electrons are at any given moment...
I tend towards low art
as pattern-less theory adherence
for the spaces between
my being happenstantially aware
and painlessly ignorant...
I watch the fallen leaves leave
a sweet smell of death
in their slow curl
to crisp paper poem...
grasses here, where
four seasons square the circle
are root ready soldiers
on the front lines of seasons...
they tenaciously stand
and fight to gain the sun
even on cloudy days
tannin(s) blighted, bleeding in...
things we felt compelled to want
by wantonly wanting into it
because we think we are
on the outside of something
we've been missing
each time we've taken a look...
do you sink or swim
when having tail strings clipped
can you catch a breath
trailing in the wakes
and measures of this life's
are we domicile key masters
are traveling sorrows and joys
in league with what our teeth
can chew tumbling...
do we have kin
who might recognize us
in our dark passages...
and the dead
are we in front
of electromagnetic pocket doors
being made to perceive whether
we are being let in by accident
are we only the sum
of digits and binary code...
are we algorithms needing bones...
are we what stuff souls gather
to be inside the ride...
what passes as a future passed off
as the present just past
a last exhale...
yours or mine
maybe a shadow
maybe a shine...
we like wearing our monsters,
we make way to where the air
is dappled with dust
slant angled light-riders
low room high window...
too small for easy transmission
though we know from where this poem's end
basements thirst sunshine too...
October is funerary ripe, siphoning
what slow blood is left in our bodies...
end of poem sees just how filled
are our casks of capture certain
and sweet pale amber wine...
where a cell has telling features
of what birds do come Winter time...