Saturday, November 14, 2015

pull to the bullet.

i jump into the knives; sometimes
evil demands an answer, and resistance

is denial, and denial
makes us repeat the same words
as we circle around the

elephant in the room over and over. sweat

for the son of god, from behind the wheel
and while on the phone. both

at once. the cost of living is on me.
if these were bows and arrows we had to
work with,
we'd feel a little less defective. it's something
i think i might like to see
of myself. i can't think of much else

that'd keep me warm. this is the me
that's been in the bowels of the big
city- the forest of used-to-be. parts of me have
left it for
a little while. other parts of me have left it for good, parts

of me are still here, knowing
there's not much for me to do next- except, say,
cry, and work on

loosening the tension in my muscles. next step:
howl

and let every wolf out there come to me.
dislike them.

leave them for dead. let it all
take care of itself.

walk through a desert for so long
that new accents become
a piece of cake to understand. continue to fail

to understand old wounds, though. believe i've been robbed
a lot. (i've seen it in movies a lot.) change drops from

my pockets. no matter

how ominous
the cloud, capture the fluff of it. meet
the maker- the one that's in us all
and all those who hang from windows, and all those
who've jumped off railroad platforms.

if you put your head in my arms, and told me

who you were other than
who you wanted to be, i'd say

we're all roman numerals, even
your young children. having more than one
is going too far, but who would know

any better.
i'd sing your children a song, all the songs
get along. we might all

like to learn how to sing songs, and be
in one another's arms, these stranger-arms travel

in circles. hardly a soul
can get by them.