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.”