9.05.2003

Evening

Upon the laurels of evening,
I will ride
Or make my bed,
When the sun is turning in
To say its prayers,
And all candles are snuffed out
By evenings oblique,
That feeling of inadequacy,
The moon smeared on the windows,
And melancholy,
The beckoning of beds to bodies.
Tomorrow, I am Phoenix;
For now, I will decay
Into the shards of past
That remain
When all else is enveloped
In future
And lies dormant
In baskets on the porch,
Ears drooping
Onto the cold linoleum,
Waiting for breakfast
And the scraps that cling
To our plates,
And they will lick
Into the corners
Of evenings still unmade
With rough tongues
And leave loneliness drool
In shapes that resemble
Rings and fences
And 2.3 children.
It’s time to pass
Into my several world
And find the matrimony
Of easy-picking and wormless,
Fruit that doesn’t cling,
But doesn’t sing in harmony
With earthtones,
Blushing at the thought of the fall.
If such a place exists,
Then I will pitch my tent
And invite evening in for the night,
For a game of poker,
And for the chance to gamble away
Every orchard.

Box

Maybe I’ll sprout wings
And fly
And someday melt the sun
Until it fits in my hand
Or beat the air
With untrained hands,
And when blue becomes saturated
With the tears that only black could cry
We will fight
And barter blows
For scars and ruptured understandings.
It’s not enough to understand;
Blood is required
In exchange for whispers
And whispers don’t even exist.
If escape is a verb,
Then surrender is death.
Surrender is the lure
Of inexpensive days
Stretched to cover times loom,
Stretched to hide the unknown.
Cardboard sanctuaries
Make prayers thin and hollow
And allow knees no carpet
For repentance.
I would light a candle
And offer a midnight vigil
To saints who can’t see
Through soul-thick walls
But it would consume me.
And liberate me.
I’ll take the long step down
From the soapbox facade
That I’m not on,
As I cross into something
That would green all yellow
And dream in shades
Of whitened black
And blackened white
That intersect at help,
At vacant parking lots,
And at desperate whispers,
That say more than words.
I am Icharus,
If not Lincoln,
But never Sparticus,
Letting others fill my walls,
Letting others bear my cross,
Others whose names
Resemble conspiracy,
Anarchy and s e p a r a t I o n .
“I” should be lower case standing alone,
But grammar is against me;
It wars,
And fights,
Unfair, southpaw,
And I am striking the air,
Running in vain
With all that strives against me.
What I need is holy matrimony,
A joining of parts of me
I divorced
And forgot,
The faces I keep in other selves.

This Road

This road, faded grey and weather-beaten, hard, like long-settled volcanic regurgitation, pours hot over the countryside. It marks an end of every green Elysium, a border beyond which the living cannot pass.

This expanse of rock and scars, sewed up like Frankenstein's monster, as thin as a heartbeat, but drawn out into the vast horizon, chunks at the edges, ruffles like a wind-tossed scarf, flakes, cracks, secedes from its union, and lies in rubble to signify its state.

This artery, enamored with rubber, carries a consistent flow of traffic converging, in time, with its destination. We use it as one might a slave, indifferently, as we press our tires to its face.

This concrete fabric stitched up with miles of yellow and white thread, stretches into the distance until it melts into the sky. Behind me, it ventures from places I've been, merging, eventually, with places I'm going. Of course, it has its splits and jogs, divergences and tributaries, and can seem to lead awry or roundabout, but ultimately it takes me where I want to go.

The Capo

The light massages its silvery surface and I could see my reflection if I held it before me. It’s beak is coated inside with rubber to maintain, on a guitar, an equal tone of increased key. The grip, also, is overlaid with rubber for easy application, though the spring at its nexus is rather tight and difficult to work. This is so that, when in place, eating at the guitar neck like a police dog, it won’t slip and cause the strings to buzz, a wholly unpleasant sound. Thus, the capo, when employed correctly and skillfully, has an altogether pleasing tenor, one of content assistance and cheerful modulation, making change easier.