Xxx Xxxxxxxxx Xxxxxx

Prelude

Changing me to visit him
I put out my last hopeful choice
I began the lines with ideas
of me
yet now I’m lost
and found in-doubt; placed inside
my gaze
collecting what I want to know
feeling funny and smiling at fancy clay
modesty fools even the arrogant minion
gives him a chance to give
possibly taking his heart away
but letting it beat on truer;
unlike me.



Xxx Xxxxxxxx Xxxxxx


It was an invention that none of us knew about
but sadly enough we noticed
my almost finished appetite let me know that
through out the acres of my modesty
there was one lacking ingredient
but over in the corner of the dust ball of heaven
is a mistake that gave man deceivability
- my friend, thru ember and ambers
thru darkness thick and thin we are what
we always think we’re not and the
Changeful Childe, he is what he always dream’d not
through rural afternoon he sat and waited for the
trains to stop and to wave at the men in the caboose
feeling like a blind date, he cuffed his pants and
danced through the doorstep;
thinking that one nose is just like another
but how different chins are
partly sacramental and industrialized he pardon’d the
townsfolk for laughing
he always thought men and boys were different
in parts
life was a puzzle and he had all the pieces
like a new tire has tread
but I had always took corners too fast

The night comes slowly
and still waiting for the trains
my bloody heart remembers
the first pangs of love
half beaten, batter’d and skull’d
when a marvelous attitude arose
to discuss the moving children in the street and
how after the rain, the road seems to ride
better
and after the sun sets, the trees seem to
talk out-loud
I’m not one to judge but this made me worry
for how often a man such as this comes along and decides
to breathe romantic breaths
throughout tiring days and felt out nights the
ladies begin to bore
even the nostalgic teenager feels a little bit of the
pressure of life
True; but the Changeful Childe will adjust – not think
It is me who thinks

Everything still appear’d the same
the bookshelf was still dirty and the TV was clean
I hadn’t yet thought to peek into the bathroom
my motives have good intentions… or so I thought
the TV has grown a mustache from watching so
much football
and has scars from the poker games
Elliot has just left and the parties now over
the mostly eaten hotdog is still on the rug…
its now we’ll sit and complain about life
but the presidents good and so is the state
and if Marilyn Monroe was still alive she’d still
be beautiful
and we could elect James Dean for president

“I only know as much as the next guy
but he always gets all the fun I only
sit and pretend to understand
I never talk so what’s the problem
arguments lose their meanings if you have to prove them
what’s the point anyway… once its over it’s
only one more thing to argue about”

now, I’m sitting here nursing my wounds of complacency
drawing sighs of approach he now just waves at
the cars, no longer the trains…
eating a breadstick and thinking of a Beethoven
song
his leg begins to get dirty thinking of his high school
why never believe a martyr unless he bites your
sandwich, then of course he is a beggar
and the other man was a martyr
… but in the end who is more reputable
after all everything is capitalistic
search, seize and destroy
nothing rides off honor even the judge knows that.

“Alas but ‘til then I’d cry
for how often it is that we must be fools
to such a whim!
for after all why do we do for ourselves
and expect so much from others!”

day after day
the Changeful Childe hardly knows
anymore
what it is that pulls his faith
from beneath the proverbial hat
looking afterwards at his loneliness
he only notices himself
still alone and waiver’d for some
new Broadway show
he leaves nothing to be done
and almost forgets himself in the wash
how often can a man take a walk
until he knows all the street signs by name?
looking around, even I can feel his hesitation
is anxiety such a feelings as love?

“I’ve combed my hair five times today
don’t you think that is enough?
My God, look around and seek the snow
it rains ten times a month!
Have you ever asked yourself
what it is you’re doing or do you just
do it day after day…”

I watched him sleep once,
the Changeful Childe, he is strange
he crossed his mouth and then he curs’d
almost everyone he knew
for not realizing what it was he wanted
or questioned his very right to live
he would ask and sometimes I’d answer
but is that a consolation for grief?
we are what we always think we’re not
are we not?
after all the butcher is a movie star
and the maid is a queen
I am just a jezebel
waiting for a ring
give me something that can’t be taken
leave a part of my soul up there
where peace is just another day
and the war is outside of the town
let us tell our secrets
let us pour our favorite song
open that bottle you save for breakfast
I’m curious and maybe we can
help him realize that once it begins
there is no turning back
at least not for morality’s sake you can’t
but that never stopp’d us before

“so if we did decide
to leave or just steal away
what is the quickest way to go
through the alley or a hypnotic avalanche
but I’d want some people to live
have you ever kill’d someone in your mind before
or just wish’d them back luck?
not that I have, I’m just asking,
I’m not evil, that’s just what they say.”

the lawn is damp and full of yesterday
killing the weeds with hope
it was on a sad day that she bore
the bastard that haunts his doom
destiny left once to speak on the woes
of a higher death than this
Ormon knew but didn’t care
things by now had gone too far
so, so little change has come through here
so emptied laughs still hear
the farthest sense of holding hands
knowing that one day he’d have to let go
sad sad boy he ‘tis
never sure what it is they tow

It was his one decision that brought him here
to Common Lot we know
back to love, yes love so easy
it’s so easy to trace things to love
but mind you, we don’t know whether its
a virgin’s love or a mother’s love he seeks
no blood is on his tears, so little I know
plus I found no marks on the TV

A beer can crushed with teeth tells
me something
is more important than nothing
but never sell a short man short
he’s a world apart from thin air
the Childe has now spoken to me,
to you and almost anyone
speaking words of plastic pain
and he uses a wooden stick to walk
do you understand?
my imp is your imp nothing more imp than
that
after all, knowing what imp is one thing,
doing imp is another
I notice now he draws the trains
nothing like giving up on a dream
but he is human unlike Ormon
but who ever cared about that anyway
it’s now that things have gone to waste
nothing is sacred in war and death
a version of grief is greed you know
only it’s a little more satisfying to know
that after one’s gone they’ll be sifting you clean
and if not; they’re glad you’re dead!
I guess I’d rather be wished what I have
instead of wished what I can’t
the Changeful Childe is in that matter of fact.
I never know when to stop!

These things now lie like drapes
fallen, unmoved from yesterday’s games
no balance
nothing tries or breathes anymore
it’s all unfortunate
or that’s what the paper might read
how the Changeful Childe lost all direction
and died inside his maze
filling up on nostalgia at the gas station
looking for a lube at the cigarette counter
and trying to speak some sense to the
soda machine
he lost
so much and tried so little
he knew that liberty was gone and at that
he wanted to revolt
he was always and is one step beyond
he’s dead but goes on living
(no one’s told him yet)
a fatty piece of conscience waste
no rats or moles or fleas come this way
not even Elliot helped with this mess
confined to self doubt he still hasn’t been able
to leave the front porch to answer the door
he can’t even let himself in
what peaceless love has found home in
the mindless heart he is
a well proportioned groveling pit of aborted Lego’s
building some liaison to death
grooving a bridge to awkward thought
for elegance to walk
he hasn’t yet come home

let me mention he does at times
get motivated
at times he sees himself human
this is when he walks his shadow to meet
the mirror in the hall
he knells the reflection to speak at once
and he repeats the unethical vow
he says this is different
nothing will slow him down
he vaguely hears the others knocking
and kills the shadow there
which then is buried in his Sunday suit
for some special holiday
he coughs and follows me
to where we both sit and
wait. I think and he watches
the air move
he once told me of seeing animals
floating in colonies around him
telling him of what I do not yet know
and how much smarter he really is
he mocks life by living it quietly loud
in solitude marked by colors
my pictures are not for vision
they are painted in blue
towels burn the wet seals of concrete around
what now pulls me here
I throw out iron books with dirty pictures in them
to extinguish but they are no help
the Changeful Childe
is lost in this
he pours yellow ink on his hand and this puts
out the flame
almost a hero, almost something other than a mistake
The Changeful Childe calls my name

“… forces are not evil
time is sent to rot a mind
lurk in front and be seen my friend”
he said and then walked inside.

I tore my mouth out with words
I rang a bell of joy
and being a poet I almost cried

have I been mocking life?







by ШАМРО
August 10 – September 15, 1987
© 1987 private stock poetry