i'd say i talk too much
to no one, of course-- my cat
must have very tired ears.
this little scrubhole, a
niche in nothing
too important, special messages on sympathy cards would disagree--
with palms outstretched, as if they thought themselves a god; winding
down the street, up to anywhere
anywhere-- to the church on the corner that has more money than
my university stole from me
than the rein-check ole miss and lousian--
excuse me, loosie,-- took out of
me
my family after 2005.
medulla oblongata spinal accords
spilling ink of passion, skin singes
ear-to-ear
coagulating Red Sea on shag carpet
warriors call it heavens gate
whether by gun steel, Western Haven,
or Dynasty's alloys in metalworks
the gate is always open, forever vulnerable.
if you found love in untilled land
would you know?
in the flash of the camera obscura
rough edges between forest lines
and bright eyes, production bowing outward,
would you know?
for the most part
poems are as patchwork as people are
as rough, like the rag-made blankets
from before Edison found his calling.
edges on people, on handiwork,
the hand-me-downs that music is;
callousness of
all that takes work
(love for pioneered generations)
Hermine
brought the march of the shrimp plants:
and so we make use of our
skewed stirrups and frayed leather
have you ever SEEN such limpid hands--
put to use on a battlefield
water and land no difference to a soldier
on the rough edges of
survival.
presence of mind that all men have
their
living being.
he's filled the whole of the room.
a howling void in the same sense a
black hole is a void
yet all there is left.
a raging ocean at the depths of night
lack all light reflect, prismatic-- as whites and colours must.
where you know there is horizon
(magnetically, scientifically,
there must be)
yet there is
none,
none to be seen.
his mind was the same hurricane that swept
the south, my mansion and her dignity.
A Mind
all knowledge must emulate as a tigress, and
ravish upon. A consumer of the highest order,
top-tier predator.
on the very edge of your own,
verging on sight, peripheral ghost; a hunter knows a blindspot.
will use: his ethic
his willworking hands
built a country up from steel from
coal, iron, all raw materials and
rough edges.
a hunter was once a nothing
a hunter,
has learnt from experience.
YOU ARE READING
Out In The Blue
Poetryif symbolism is meaning, then reasoning is little difference.
