Sunday, August 23, 2009

Just So You Can See How Dumb This Summer Has Made Me...

Alright, maybe not. But this is a poem I wrote last semester:

I gather my statements, poems and lines into a jar.

And they, each running in to each,

Fumble their letters,

All mesh together

As they make their dance like captured

Fluttering, brilliant beetles

Wing’d and no longer lit or free;

With the rubber rim tightly fit

‘Round an old forgotten gospel hymn,

The round glass brims in tight knotted

Knuckle wound rucksacks;

Keeping licked stamp to letters

Asphyxiating and close;

Close enough to keep the soul tied quiet in

A ramblin’ mans’ jib.

The metallic clip

resists the explosion of further reaching

comb binding slews;

Lest the inky pages try and stick too far

Into your ever-soil pressing shoes;

Grasping your ankles and wondering

Where the author went?

Suffocating the words in whole, at last

Compressing and tightening through

the bottom of the glass,

The ethereal lights do dim-

The words left in their own wake to shrivel; make do,

Choking down water before ever escaping the brim.

Reverberating clashes of thunderous flowers

Shake the woodwork of ancient wireless modems

Christening phantoms, and Luna moth wire cutters;

Raking together, scratching and kissing one another’s


Roaring and crackling

To let the glass open wide.

With hesitant fingers I always hope to grip

The thick rippled seal, along all the modern lyric,

Underneath quotes, and definition’s tips

To rip aside the glass and try

A readied apology to the author whose

Personality I had begun to unsuccessfully pry.

But neither the thick ribbed, stained tank top brandishing man

Nor the petticoat, brazier boasting woman

Could take my eyes from off the steadied blaze

The words inside my jar forever will create,

Eternally wafting in and about one and another

In a waltzing, crafting, drunken haze.

And this is one I wrote just now, very tired, slightly hungover. It makes no sense, but it's all that would come out.

Streets lighter than dark,

Though all that could be seen of the glow

Was everything that is, everything that was,

With words ever fighting for right of way out of my mouth.

The seas of streets did pour

And so they will, for endless,

Many decades more;

Assuming its war torn parties will ne'er be washed ashore.

'Til finally, one day, time was tricked

And the assault weapons stopped

The wind died down and the

Ocean failed to rock;

The ship that ne’er do sail,

To seas too far for stronger quells-

There, did the cannons lose their aim,

Did the eye of the storm then rage,

Upon that wasted, evasive,

Lost and holy wave.

To shore, for sure,

Did the wave hope would be its final move

To be in and among, the watery naked dunes.

But the ships that waged their war

Had other plans for the wave to make

For what use is a current calm,

And a breeze far gone

For a ship to cause another to quake?

“Rock, you unholy wave; rock so that we

May be at war again and again."

“Nay,” claimed the wave,

“For it is not me who begs the water churn,

Who stocks the rifles taught

Who nips the light from the dark

Just as a hand would stop naught a clock.”

No comments: