November 21, 2015

mob and constabulary stockings

mob and constabulary stockings

(in preambles, Clement C. Moore swore 
he was a man deserving 
of velvet finery, whereas 
sundry alleys and bowels 
could not top prop, 
a proper man 
of the cloth 
deserves fate, 
it was said...

Moore having sent to fetch 
mused how wretched it is to be without...

life could just be 
a fickle smoke ring indeed, 
and he, like me
who might be, 
in a long coat 
with bit bridled 
rote rode steed 
have a pipe lit 
atop carriage 
and poem, 
frivolous thoughts 
seeds to loam
dervishly stolen into 
staccato gallop 
careening o'er
the cobblestone...)

here at an inter-loop station...
is where the stanza leaves the ellipse

broken parenthetical 
documentation, poem 
knows stop start stop 
stop start again
says nip it here 
the vignette 
don't let'em see 
you drive one-handed
poem says, listen there are
pieces of ornamental stars 
they fall to Earth 
and make mushrooms grow 
inordinately large 
poem says 
eat only 
a little bit

(his eyes widened 
and were on fire 
for a place away 
from home in
a tremble joy 
that began serving 
the painted glass 
of his soul 
poured pore 
and rain)


thieves keep company 
with those folks 
who doth linger 
in the squeeze 
of gleams, just 
before they blink
into their fantasies

they are keen to when 
folks are given over 
to being mesmerized, in 
it was as if 
they knew what was
gnawing at you, and were 
counting what moments 
you might leave, unquantified...

ill to be defined 
any rhyme or cadence 
caged dance 
cognac from Lafayette 
caught Moore 
in fanciful steps 
slow or quickly taken 
without pausing
while abandoning 
reason to be 
so merry more
than sometimes...

there are always going to be faces 
in the crowd, thieves remember
scents driven, never want 
to know names...

they are often 
seething with impatience 
especially before 
the holidays 
the bustle 
and chattel glow 
kept burning 
fire in their bellies...

the world here, November 
is a knife 
edging onward
death angel pilgrims 
theogony, knees 
palms and foreheads 
thieves mine
the long trails 
of repeat journeys 
the overlap of our lives...

like I said, the world 
here, November 
and thieves are 
seething tremble joyful 
patient unseen(s)
they are hungry ever 
as we, for meaning 
to do well, even 
when there 
might never be 
a why we might 
want to do so...

shadow thieves 
only pinch 
your prettiest places 
mostly, no one 
notices, mostly 
they're too busy 
filling spaces 
what they imagine 
need to be a-filled  
the traces of themselves 
that are going off 
racing in paces 
in laced boxes 
chocolate, liquor, wine and jars 
all kinds of pickled to jellied sublime(s) 
they are roped off inside 
sentiment with arti-factories 
attention spans driven away 
by the many moving lights
and candles, thieves work 
the underneath mobile 
handled shines

here, at the corners 
of smile and bell 
they play the quiet(s) 
and the rests 
the sounds like rain 
all the smells 
of a boiled pot 
there, behind the scenes 
thieves pilfer 
and gather 
caring to slip 
through nooses unseen...

they see you
red rose cheeks, perhaps 
on another side of glass 
drunk and enjoying the cold air
and they see you, 
sometimes forgetting 
to turn out the lights...

as if you were willing 
them an invite 
sown seen buried 
beneath busy 
tapestry Christmas 
with wish lists 
and stockings hung 
by the chimney 
with care...

dare, dare 
truth be dared...

"Livingston, I presume..." 
said bellow to flue... 
"...stars are tombstones 
I thought we all knew..."

this way, this way yes
this way quickly please


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