a fourth horseman poem for leap year in two parts...

photo credit, Barobo Police Department

part 1

<in haunted whispers, offstage, 
" we're here to pied piper guide 
a lone soul on home">

the scene is adrift 
found by superstitious fishermen 
we want you, the audience to be 
where their minds first went...

(perhaps he bargained with the sirens and said please 
give me one last blow job while I read to you before I go...)

and every leap year 
there's always a chance 
your heart breaks 
time to get to you

I love to read 
all the story
that's news to print 
on this inter-phased 
one quarter day of the year 

this one 
had me hooked 
from the get go

the sea gods and goddesses 
must have re-painted his vessel 
in the desiccate spirit 
of old man Santiago 

his name was Manfred Fritz Bajorat

the picture shows him 
bent over still seemingly thinking 
about courses of action, while 
at a side deck radio controls table  


part 2

in a normal postmortem dream sequence 
one's own life with individualized 
nomenclature terms, plays out 
slow motioned wobble chances 
the equatorial currents and conditions 
are said to be a patient kiln, authorities said 
he's been dead for at least four days, you think...? 
he hadn't been seen since 2009 or thereabouts...

was he flying around 
low to the ground 
like we did in childhood 
a stag hunted bullet proof 
aloof did he goof 
and give roofies 
to the cows and sheep instead 
selling to make do 
with the empty pockets 
mother goose warned him 
not to come home with...

there would be no further escapades 
she said and vine climbing 
is for ripe(s) and where he must begin 
to win back the eyes of his soul 
for its root tenacity 
is that of legumes 
and mimics why marrow bones 
are ferociously magical 
near Spring in northern climes...

and though a wish for 
a forever deep Summer 
might be enticing 
it can also be foreboding 
when told from a desire 
to only be worn with light
deep inside Winter's womb 
seeking this can nearly blind a man 
and make him nose dependent 
on things like dry ocean winds 
and slow scouring salty air...

flesh and skin driven drying 
lost teeth labeling intricacies 
and processes, swept low feeds 
exchanged misdirection where 
calendars steal metal 
diving our souls 
and are almost always 
a caught-glimpsed place 
we danced maybe-d 
on the news, we led
ghost hem thieving 
the pregnant divide(s)

EJR ©