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...
EJR ©
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