national poetry month

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Sunday, January 18, 2015

A Horizontal Blue

The pen, it weighs a thousand tons
I lift it up and try to remember something other than its burden
My spirit it wings and is crushed by the weight of the ocean
My life, it sings, and is sundered by hooks.
My words, they plead, let not the typewriter echo
Let not the hush be unhushed
Or the winter crow be uninterrupting.

I must ignore... the chains moribund, the stones being thrown,
the weight of my indecision.

I must elocute the abstraction
for the abstractions are all the same color white
and hide blackly all in the same of night

I must but for a lack of peace wait for the next train
to drag by, the next car to hum through
The next breeze to wash away the rain dripping from eve
I have to wait again for time to come back
and remember the abandoned cabin with rose colored glasses
left in the forest to worry about a plowed road
and flooded speech

------

The forest wants me not
The deer flee, the trees ignore
And still I cast nets out into the sea of indifference
If I should be so indifferent to myself.
If I should say thank you and please to myself
I might like myself better like all the baristas
whom I support by buying coffee for people they try to kick out.
Like all my women friends, whom keep giving an inch of their hem
Like all the deer and woodpeckers starving with me in this January sky
Starving and letting go of expectation.
If we expect nothing, I suspect nothing good will come of it.

I respect the circumspescious or is that speculative insight
of my intuition.  It could be both... at the same time if I suspected right.
Little is heard of the world except of joy
But is that to say, less is worded of grief.
The scarce grace of love would say it is.
And the less scared of friendship would attest to it.
but Lies and liars, they know not sometimes things they don't know.

----

Little is said of time.  Yet that is all there is
The clouds block it diffuse into white sky crap
It refuses to step lightly into room
And start ticking, slow tricking, veiled picking
Of the known joy keeping watch over airwaves.

The house creaks under its weight.  The trees slouch
from its embrace, but when it comes lay sullen and rain sodden
like my cat except for where it's carried in slow tumble by towel.
I know not if it exists, really, and at night even I disappear
Into the broken silence of it's paranoid ticking of disinterest
And indifference, fleeing upon approach and largely unaware
As trees are unaware of the green and gold of their flesh
Always growing up and out into heaven
To end as they always end, slaughtered
As moments are slaughtered to alleviate suffering
As sleep itself sacrifices the pain of living.

The revolution continues.  A tree dies for your salvation.
But love alone is worth the fight.

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