363poem

November 2, 2011

Central heating like Saharan sunflares.
Lamplight creeps through the table cracks
like a crimson moon reversed, a hum there,
or memory slowly leaking. Uncertain poetry.
Observe sound of thought, thought of sound.
We are the interpreters of unwritten stories.
Woodfloors wear past lives in graceful silence
without the toddy smalltalk we use to distract
from the decent, hard-earned scratches of plot,
as if life were a screen to obediently wipe clean.
All the while nothing is perfect, nothing is exactly
as described when they told us full steam ahead.
White-blind yourself into the happiness of assent.
You’ve no reason to complain unless your solution
fits neatly on the war table. Spend wisdom wisely.
The blasphemy of noble rage is not knowing where to stick it.
There are no direct routes there only crooked lines and fun.
Forget, keep calm and carry on oxford comma be damned.
Hand yourself in before you dare lift your head
to powers that laugh at your seriousness, shitless.

LOCATION: Lincoln, Nebraska – Too much red wine and thought for being this geographically disconnected; I can’t help but feel there is a whole world going on out there that I don’t know.

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