In the Cool Dry

so on the seventh day
we swore against
our round hats
and muscled through snow
a hill side tipped by the meadow
took ourselves out of focus
nobly, steady…full.

while in the cooled dry
a vanishing of identity
scarring the focus
of a two toned maturity
the strange days, long lost pointless
travel to hear the crackle of footsteps
to liken the depths of recession
soliloquy of repeated phrases
to swear against love, conformity…hypocrisy
the grim reasons of certitude
kept tucked inside wool & flannel
I did keep a happiness in bounty
and I did sicken the mind
restless teaming disconnected alibi
or a hallow spent bullet aimed
to my hands

I have noticed nothing since I last shook
myself warm
I can feel those leaves turning
and I can wrinkle past habitual encampment

on that seventh day
which stood utterly still
I begged you not to turn your back on me
as we silently capped the evening off
has it turned its wobbly knees to me
a fiber beneath a dim light
no magic or nostalgia
gives back to me what was stolen
and never replaced
because looking homeward only makes
it ill & untrusting
that age old remedy is only
too much business to take care of
not enough food for the heart
will we pass away these words
tonight, against the grass
of my last winter promises
did I guide at all to what
I used to claim
or not sink my name into oblivion
wishing to know what death becomes
while soul lingers on

or did I stolidly confess the truth
of my mayhem and muster
or did I cave in because I got lonely
that memory is so clear that I can read it
and my bitter truancy is that it will not
unfold from my hands
I will not agonize why I had to be alone
why in my shame forsaken this only
ambition, I crave and I admonish,
my wheel to open me again
like reading The Prisoner of Chillon in
my car with my fingers burning in the cool dry
to turn the pages, crying, whispering to myself
this is life.






June 11, 1997



ШАМРО
from: paper hanging son of a bitch

© 1997 private stock poetry
© 2007 woundedlordliterature