January 6, 2016

I called mine, a truth, an "easy chair chicken little pot pie"

photo of Hans Bellmer, Wife and Doll
circa 1960's by Karin Székessy ©

I called mine, a truth, 
an "easy chair chicken little pot pie"

there was a milk crate we shared

we took turns standing upon it 
each of us wanted to be something
like an astronaut at one time 
in our lives when we still cared about flying...

instead, we settled for warm 
and drunk in an alley before noon 
pretending it was Speakers' Corner 
on a Sunday in London 
folks milling 'round 
with end is nigh signs 
other folks standing, 
watching, listening 
to how temporarily entertaining 
the end of days had become...

yes, I suppose too, legalism 

has been there all along 
with godliness inside
the watchtowers, buttresses 
and arrow slits for archers 
on the ready, pitch behind them 
a bubbling and a-boiling 
for those who dare toil 
to break in...

we each had been nursing 

some sermon taut inside us 
some taught tottering 
we had teetered with 
all of our lives...

we were reaching for it whilst 
engaged in leering at any self 
we had stored in our memories, 
we viewed them, puddled 
in last night's rain...

the poem paid attention

it was particle prowling 
processes I'd preyed upon 
in order to understand 
some why(s) would never be known 
as something other than just what luck gathers...

I watched for any incendiary devices 

coalescing as love, this
while hydrogen was separated 
from water for fuel 
I waited for this to finish
to smoke my one last cigarette...

poem and I had become 
thirsty for divinity too 
so we knew to get out 
of each other's way as best we could
when the sky began a-falling...

there were no strings left to pull 
we were quite aware 
of religion's puppetry and sacrifices 
we made due by laughing 
under an umbrella 
we pretended to have...
while this world fell all around us 
we were comfortable creatures 
once again, jack-knifing a tin can for dinner 
rubbing our hands together, keeping...



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