Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Landslide


Reflection

Cool cut when I was a kid, flat top
and long hair around the sides, duck tailing
in the rear, unusually usual so that I looked different
like everyone else, unique as a quarter, but I suspected
even then I was chiseled from a rock quarry
others blew up, not gathered their stone.
Have grown over the years not impertinent but distant,
a leg away form my neighbors, four directional
so never at a time I can say wholesomely I fit,
or even demented, rebellious, can organize around
my center with a design as conclusive as a chalk mark
and elicit converts to my aid. Impossible me,
arguing continuously with the mirror image I face
each evening, with neither side ever relenting.



Mid-week
              
Self-censorship, like self-enlightenment, like self-
taught. The self is a marvelous thing, so selfless
it sequesters itself in a tureen filled with molasses,
a gunk, sweetened and thick that holds it together,
never revealing itself to others. Just once
I'd like to flash the universe, not with indignities
but with intimate liquids, admit I leak from predictable
orifices, give my statistics—not just
psychical entities, height, weight, age,
but maladies, so open I can saunter in revelation,
a heliotrope turned to the sun, with nothing sécreted
yet fully invulnerable to darkness, lies, misgivings,
a fishbowl existence so no curve in my anatomy
is an imponderable and I needn't apologize for anything.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

The War to End All Wars

Indulgent and part here, I sound feebly
the ocean for deep chords I fathom in the strings,
the solo of the one sonar of the sound bar,
the sand bar, from where my eyes squint,
but all things are of a meaning and have webs,
tentacles of no piercing nature but floating loosely
on the waters where the Dauntless torched decks
and the Avenger avenged the avengers in the Central Pacific.

So, too, are the starlings that startle the trees
in the peace force of a deciduous morning when the banker,
oblivious to curtailment, counts booty, not wars,
and all dying is a product of reduction, when the course
of a nation is courseless and drained from the insatiable nod
of a once wing mate in a turbulent nothing.