Blood Red Turpentine
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Quietly in this cone of silence,
Web of solitude,
Your reflection teases from a thousand shards
Of bad-luck-broken mirror but
I can't see you,
Though I turn and turn, looking.
It snakes around trees awakening
Silver sliver through grass turning verdant
Slips in through a newly cracked window
With the whoosh of moist fresh air.
It finds me here, strapped to my
Weekday concerns, even on a Sunday,
And coils up to my ear, whispers
Of open roads and apples
The infection shows in a hunger
I can't fill, a thirst unslaked, a
Restless itching desire for these soles
To find pavement, and trail, and go.
Half-realized exotic visions dance in
My head, mangos and prairie and car
Rides and flying to where you are
Greeted by natives in batik or grass skirts or furs.
I want to be anywhere but
Here, anyone but me, anytime but
Now. I twitch, unable to untie the concrete laces
That keep my home shoes on, wed me to reality.
I am drunk and must riot in the streets
I lack a mission, an aim, beyond anarchy
and change, but I am beyond caring.
Break these chains, spring, tidal currents call me.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
No matter whose orbit I
throw myself into it, no matter
What zenith, what nadirs I reach, it's
Here I find myself, now, then,
Here, ground zero,
Naked mind, heart, alone, with
The cold wind whistling through me
Cleansed of intention,
Torn from pretension,
Building no myths, just
Clinging to the rocks with my toes.
Stretched to the sky.
Me myself and I.