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
re-introduce
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
luxurious-material-wanting-
to-be-hunger...
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
EJR ©
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