Thursday, April 23, 2009


Twisted into a rigid spear
banged flat artifact
Ironbound and bent by
The dirty hands
of the blacksmith
Hammering away
in his dark den until
it fits his sharp shape,

He puts it to the flames to fit his image
making the material more malleable

My Iron glows; I have turned you into an arrowhead
and sheathed you in copper

Is this is what you
deserve? To be put to the anvil

by some gnarled hands that do not belong
to you? To be contorted into

Some violent weapon whose sole
purpose is to puncture
My flabby heart
To let my guts spill out
When I tear you from my chest
In disbelief.

Although the neck snaps in half
In my deflated attempt
To let it all fall out.
The point, apparently,
was lost in my own heart


Six hours to get to
You. The number twelve like some center
On an ethereal clock

A halved circle with a diameter determined
By an equation I never learned

Ignoring the rest of the orbit. An invisible line like a knife.

The hands turn
Sequentially locked clock–

They row slowly over the face
Of the time they tell. Not even sure what

They are actually saying.

It is just a representation of something

They do not, and perhaps never will, understand.

Movement defined by what they cannot define. Yet how
Often does time say things it doesn't mean?

Even when the hands are lined-up bottom-to-top (or is it center-out down-and-up?)
They are still pointing in different directions.
A high wire spectacle you can only see with binoculars
Nobody has ever survived to cross.

Besides, who ever believed in time travel?

But I suppose there is the second hand to consider

In a lemon of a car stuck
At a gas station slowly filing up with regular,
(gas prices are outrageous these days)
I will not make it
Until midnight.

This car gets terrible mileage, I wish I had
A decked out Delorean that ran on garbage.

And yet, I make the journey. At least the scenery is nice.

I'll have to fill up two more times.

I never thought
To take the clock off the wall
Open it up and turn
The hands with my hands

If Below The (On Reading With Great Difficulty)
How might I
walk alone outside
the comfort of my
............if below the
impenetrable cover,
the deluge & hue
of dense water
from clouds that, at
least release
that rain that
drenches my un–
combed hair
yet it does not soak my
water resistant coat
that I wear.

Stepping out
too late I grabbed
in haste, a jacket
to brace myself,
to race the wind

.............the clouds
cover me with a form–
idable body of rain

hide the sun, irrecoverable

(to the eyes of someone
......common with bent spine
..........but not the common spine)

Though they do
still, I walk

with a hunch
from the weight
of the rain into the wind
it thrusts me backwards
fumbling with
my keys trying
to get to my car;

dropped. Lost
in the mud of an unkept
lawn. locked
out of my car

standing in the rain.

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