I don't write, I paint myself blind with words...diogenes herded...ignorance...gilded cages...filling up on beauty unleashed...free will's maddening fractures...eyes that need to smell to see...
December 22, 2015
today, I'm leaping, your many brightly packaged abysses...
today, I'm leaping, your many brightly packaged abysses...
in the southern reaches
of the North American continent's
Boreal forests with their old nubby shale,
granite and clay covered mountains...
the temperatures are seemingly
lost by way of season...
modern reason is
too often an unkind mistress...
it places bargained for comfort
and cages disguised as privileges and
rights above our higher aspirations...
and even though we live to live
securely now...taking care
to ensure those of us with the most
keep the lion's share of honey...
this chase has become
what we are
it is our order
as a managed, to be...
resources...allocation
and its processes
are the repeated poems
of our manifest destiny...
they are cadenced
healthy dosage-d fear
this helps the medicine
go down, a tonic embalming
a churn and chum
of the ho, ho,
ohm and hum...
their jingle went something like this...
"if you think this life is, a tastes great dope,
just wait for us to take the rest of your shine
all the chicanery is to bind you to a hope
in a tomorrow never meant as wine..."
meanwhile there are those
who say mankind's rapidly
progressing technologically
advancing teeming population
is a purposefully unwieldy mob...
a push, pull and turn the knob...
flippers and levers
what have you to sever
in the sliver-ing promises
cascading as good will
in a snow globe-d-leaning-back
into the wobble world...
simply put there are
too many of us
on this planet...
and with nary
a single means
as to putting
our Humpty-Dumpty
pieces back together again...
we're just surfing the hanging on(s) now
threadbare champagne-ing it...
(seventy degrees Fahrenheit late December for crissakes...)
my approach to this
is but one of many
rain to southerlies laden
Christmas eves,
it is a mix
of eulogy
and birth right rituals
trimmed from when I wish
we still worship-ped trees...
there is always
an ease, a serenity
of discovery when
rabbit hole fishing
for every end
to spend on thyself...
toxic giving, accumulative gleam(s),
humanity mirroring this
our modern mantra,
over and over, more ways
to entomb life
despite moments when
the joyful rivulets
of bird songs be a-mixing
with aggregate archetypal scent
in a damp soothing ooze
of warm matted leaf mud...
'tis certainly odd weather
for this time of year...
making this mantra
an easy to see mantra beneath
how we bleed...a mantra of, for you
to be true to me you must be true to the you,
I see you as, and despite predicate volleys
of survival and the revival skins
I stretch over my old soul's current bones...
I, only, have to outlast you...
to get back inside, the cycles
and churches of trees...
any roots, real or imagined,
are found, bent desperate knees...
I'll crawl all the broken
and cut glass of what
shadows forge and pass
just to steal back the light
I need to eat my infinity with...
so merry thee
ye who have desire
distilled in their soul
for this we drink in
each burning bright
on these nights,
when we have
warm hearts,
a-roared together
turning back
to the Sun
EJR ©
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What is the point of a kind mistress? It sounds like this one (with her "bright // lights") smokes dope with you and then sticks you in a cage. Every man's dream, I'd think.
ReplyDeleteAND, to top // it // off, she's a doe-sage. Can this chick GET any cooler?
"la(y)den ... Eves"
ReplyDeleteHilarious.
The part about crawling the broken is my favorite. And the way you slipped in lonely walks of exploration when you hyphenated "worship-ped." Plants and air. They see straight into me. How could you not worship them?
ReplyDeleteI also love the closing. Are we turning back to the Sun? Or are we turning our backs to the Sun?
ReplyDeleteI only speak in paradox. I can't communicate with anyone who thinks he knows what he thinks or knows, or what he's trying to convey. Puzzles are the only // kind // of clarity I'm interested in.
Firstly, thank you and welcome to the fun-house, the nut-house, the green-house, the house that Baba Yaga tends to in the middle of our inner primordial forests...I only lens these pieces and write just to feel, sometimes...I know nothing of meaning, save for what it means to hear the poem sing or play its melody...words often follow this surrender to lead the way, with their certainty of direction...they say to themselves, there is always music played between rain and wind to spawn into all our visages, bones, articulations, ambulation stories and home(s)...
DeletePoets typically hate me because I care far more about how words sound together when they're, you know, getting kinky in a mirror-play linguistic coat closet.
DeleteIt doesn't matter all that much what they mean, other than our momentary inventions. Words are swingers. They can't stand it when they're tied down by definitions.
Delete