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you came, as always
loaded for bear full of jack-knives and shin kicks but I liked your pretty dimple and you said kind things to me once that I still half believe, even as the lights go out and I crawl around in the dark looking for my eyes. I had hair then, and a face and I believed in things as strange as purple cows or the benevolence of space aliens love, too, seemed strangely believable as if it were something you could order seeds for and grow. a rake leans crookedly in the garden now and the sea is a light year away. heart, I am sorry-- Durga said these things would happen she said, "hold onto your shins and save a little bit of yourself for me." I have no disdain
for anyone really except maybe for a few politicians whom I don't know personally and if I did might find them not unlike myself were I also excruciated with power nor do I have disdain for animals or the sun or sharp stones. bad food maybe, but not for those who toil to cook it even the smokestacks which are ugly but make me think of minarets or the tower that was built to reach God, so that God could be kissed and made real-- a god they claimed frowned upon us. No, I have little heart for disdain, but in that littleness, there I sit, a little self of me wringing its sad hands and cursing the heart as a prison and the blood as venom-- my blood. my heart. |
Poetry LogPoems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below. Archives
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