In an
abandoned garage over on River road.
In a left alone box…I keep the sacred thoughts.
In an upholstered chair from 1972, all velour and static, covered in snow.
That is where make-believe takes a seat.
It is where poetry goes.
Around about, midday, most days, when the sun quenches the sky.
I take time out to visit a graveyard Sage made of stone and bone.
To amend the playful wrongs…make them…right.
Everyday…a fortunate spirit on an infinite flight.
“If we took all the poets and banded them together. Could problems arise or self-solve?”
Lyricists to our own plights…Could prose set a tilted world right?
…
“What of my yet undocumented pain? Would my own words make me sane?”
…
‘It is always something’…I heard a philosophical schizophrenic say.
…
“What if we all banded together today?”
…
If this, single entity, called forgiveness…
were a book.
It would be open…
amassed with complex, simple and congeal words.
Each letter…sharp as, the finest blade.
Still…the voyage of…forgetting…would not be saved.
I could, we could, the winds could…embody the same chapter…
The same verse…over and over.
Understanding would stand alone…misspelled.
Ill behaved.
Oh, how I have hoped…to pen the story of a world…
‘giving back all that it took.’
Chapters filled with mended hearts.
A romantic plot where love builds a home.
And, pain is driven be car…
far, far, away.
But vision is lost…current day…in the burning building of thought.
Leaving a closed book…
With hope being accosted.
A victim of high cost.
Air and life.
Pen to parchment.
Keys on a board.
Far exceeding the edge of a clandestine knife.
Words dug out of a deep hypnotic hollows
with the edge of a blade, mirrored by dictated passages…
Letters, various, sashay-ing into short sentences.
Someday…soon I had hoped to feel less shallow.
Head strong, book smart, another phrase, another’s way.
Feverishly wanting to preserve, I began to write my own words.
Short prose of pigments, flowers that flow.
Bouncing balls encompassing…where I had been.
And, where I wanted to go.
I gave no true thought to redemption upon someone else’s sentence.
Or, holding a dull shank to my detention.
In the rural mayhem, of my life.
A gift had been given to me…rather innocuously.
Nothing comes to mind…in the dirt…correct, grammatically.
My predator became the prey with the verse of my own words.
Rendering this menacing voice.
Pushing it further down the page.
Bidding it absurd.
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