we all are in….
Conjugation: a perception of our societal will.
We all write the value of our being;
a symposium of what we (or you, or I, or us) may be….
The lost promise of the simpler-sense-of-self
that we carry from our youth:
this lie we burden our collective souls with.
Our filthy gerund we share amongst ourselves
like a communal whore.
He, she…. no apologies.
in an industrial parking lot.
A cautious Canadian goose
pokes through the clustered cars
and heads towards the retention pond
with two fluffy goslings in tow.
Other adult geese take up the rear
and the group slips into the reeds.
I feel as voyeur,
It is my good fortune
to be both.
The day feels charmed.
I gave you some of my words
(or told you they were there for you to see)
and asked that you measure them
and provide for me a scale or value….
The silence choked all reason from me
and left my sense of our friendship
lying bereft and wounded.
I pity myself for being so easily hurt,
despite my mantra
that I am without the need
for any acknowledgement….
Decades of shared exchanges
of the written-word
lie strewn upon the plains
of what once appeared to be
an unshakeable alliance.
Time pursues me,
like a lonely friend
or a desperate lover.
I eschew the advances
and shrink back at each approach…
I am reluctant.
Time comes in for a hug,
I step aside and opt for the hand-shake,
but still feel the cool grip
of its embrace.
I am busy avoiding its gaze,
like a party guest, avoiding the drunken advances
of the hosts wife.
Time has parked itself on my couch
and I have no power to evict.
Now I have become aware
that while I am sleeping
Time has been snuggling me
and the wounds of its harsh form of love
are beginning to show.
Time and I are now an item,
and I have no way out.
I step out of the shower
and have been renewed.
The simple act of running water across the body
and rubbing a lump of animal fats and alkaline
across my skin
has left me feeling
like I were new
and alive again.
I have broken the water,
destroying its surface tensions
and battering the bonds
of the filth that a day of life
had pressed into my skin
and marked upon my soul.
Like rain washes the summer from a city
and rinses winters grime from her streets
I have showered
and can call myself human
Poetry and tagged Animal fat, Baptism, bath, bathe, clean, Environment, rinse, shower, soap, wash on .
May 25, 2013
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In each simple act
a communal experience lies.
We create the myth of our independence
while riding on the backs of others
whom we decry as parasites.
I forgo the honor of caring
(and with that the burden
of needing to acknowledge
I am left with the guilt
of knowing that I too am part
of the dirty truth about independence
and its humble impossibility.
It does not matter,
as the deeper truth about our collective selves
is that we are sharing the state of the individual
and celebrating it as unique.
A homeless man on the street,
His hair rich and heavy, swept back away from his broad forehead.
He looks exactly like James Brown in the later years.
I am briefly touched, and feel the need for outreach.
He bows to the pavement, dropping to one knee:
I am suddenly overcome by the image of an assistant,
or a stage hand,
rushing to his side and draping a cape on his back,
but no one appears.
He is merely stooping to pick up a discarded cigarette butt.
The act returns him to his status as a homeless person,
But now the Godfather of Sole.
Glancing out a car window
the trees nearest to me blur by
while those in the distance barely move
and those on the horizon seem like the stars:
fixed in perpetuity.
So it is with memories,
the days of present recollection
seem to be flying past in a haze
of color and motion.
Those memories with time-on-their-side
seem clarion and resolute
while those of youth
stare down upon me
like a sentinel moon.
On the warm nights the neighborhood becomes a new place,
like the spirit of a friendly bar’
or a communal gathering space.
I had wandered over to my neighbors side of the street
and spoke the nonsense of acquaintances
bound together by the accident
I had left the garden gate open
and I began to worry that the dog
(visible on his back-of-the-couch perch
in the front window)
would soon discover it.
While my beer warmed in my hand
and my neighbor excitedly retold the tale
of his latest automobile acquisition in full color,
I nervously watched the gate, no longer held
in rapt attention
at the story of the car deal…
Then my beer ran out
and the dog left the window.
I had to ditch
on the first street-talk session
of the warm season
so my dog wouldn’t wander away
and my warm beer
could be swapped for a cold one.
I don’t think my neighbor
The stapler couldn’t make it.
The sheets were too many
(each one a measure of my day)
and it said,
I envy it.
It was built
to be beaten on the head,
and bind sheets
and today it decided,
I have no such luxury.
I am flesh and blood
and meant to be brighter
than a stapler.
Yet I will go on today,
beaten on the head
and bind together my day
without the option