March 1, 2016

cloning myself amidst mental health vagaries regarding my concepts of post republic art in relationship to the individual expression versus residues, ghosts or otherwise insistent glows of my amassed personae


a puddled sky picket fence, outside of work
one evening a few summers ago
when the restaurant was slow 





my eyes don't work as well as they used to work 
and I'm not nearly good looking enough 
to pull off vanity but my ego still likes to ride 
wisdom gigs now, belly laughs, drunk in the dark 
wondering just how old I have to be to get it...

I channel dark velvet(s), muses wrapping obsidian 
something to carry at night slow stir pot polishing 
why I'm singing songs Sun parades, tree to paper poem 

poem says, I only fall in love for the torture...
I like to because there are no rules when doing so...
I can get vulnerable, poem says, enough 
to stake claim to each time 
my soul inherits its bones...

I whisper boo, maybe you forgot 
we play until sleep takes us both 
role, rabbit hole, lo and behold 
leap and faith bargain where toes go 
the rest of us carry things...

EJR © 

1 comment:

  1. I love ridiculously long titles. They're my fave.

    I see that poem, too, is a Taylor Swift fan.

    When I worked, I used to have a girlfriend who called me a pot-stirrer. :) Well, somebody has to do it.

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