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...
January 25, 2016
some of what I store inside my stories
some of what I store inside my stories
in mason jars from till and sow
the rain and parade
above, on the widow's walk...
each, a life cast iron
rung in vignettes
I could catch my death
from most places yet
here, when I
am most alive,
it seems, a certainty...
where would one go once bitten
with a desire to be senselessly
eager and torn into tattered remnants,
where every relationship
is an echo chorus ghosted chance,
hoarded into your fading memories...
perhaps, poem is all that
I've clutched at
and held
in a close-my-eyes-
so-as-not-to-see, hear or speak
of being so rabid, randy
and redolent again...
one's indignity is
the ignoble-ignitable
material of their soul...
have you ever seen
a silo go up in one blow,
tinder flint sparked dust
jewel encrusted air, suspension of belief(s)
a webbed heavy summer time
what can be...
distilled, not to respond, save this
a fireball and not a farmer left
no none at all, following bliss
just when he knew, heaven not so, deft...
EJR ©
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete