hindered (we are; the common humanity)
I was made to bandage wounds
softly felt and I was made to carry
wit as splinters so I can crawl into
the lines of a fingerprinted thumb, we are
all bar-coded at birth. I was made
to spit antibacterial wipes.
I was made to travel
new roads that lead to old towns,
none of those towns
Mornings the sun rises in Naples
but not here until three fingers-breadth later,
mornings I reach for gold-plated glasses;
evenings I climb hills with dandelions:
rubbing off between my fingers and the skin
of a Mozart autumn-time lover. Evenings
I wipe off my glasses and put them away,
evenings I wait patiently for life to begin.
It was cold.
Someone had lost the lacrosse game 6 to 4
but that was hard to say.
Spring has a nasty habit of
hazing over the scoreboards
with off-kilter bliss. I think
there was 48 some seconds on the clock
and a mad dash to the goal.
The floodlights stayed quiet
when they were turned off even though
I was waiting for noise. There
was a manboy still on the field trying
to relive his victory in the dark, so silently.
I was there. I was watching.
I was watching. No one knew
except for the apple orchard and
a few lonely pilgrims making their separate ways
to temples of excess and snow-stricken graves.
It is not everything to know everything,
but I did not say anything to those wandering pilgrims.
They did not stop to listen. It is something,
the cigarette burns on their palms. Sometimes I
wonder how much of their sorrow
I had watched a naked badge of shame
streak across the field
and I was not the one who wrote, "the goalposts
look like crucifixes"
and I want to the know the names
And I like the smell of the sky
right before it rains. Resting cheeks
against old foundations and rural accents,
lifting airy shirts, I am picturing
Cary Grant and Derida in a bathtub,
an arm hanging over a Turkish towel-- I am
picturing Boss at his leatherchair and Motherwife's hair
uncurled and the boy in his bedroom, watching maps stay still--
I am picturing Monroe as Little Red Riding Hood--
I am picturing Ernest Hemingway being earnest
and blowing his essence out of his head.
Camaraderie and gunpowder are easy when you are on top.
Shakespeare's foils often accompany me
through ditches with drowning monsoon stars,
and I have never wanted to die.
But walking down the stairs makes me think of
guillotines and I
know how it will be when they no longer
like poets with pianist fingers and want something truer,
maybe even someone
who knows how to write dreamsongs without dreams.