Friday, June 3, 2016

campfire stories

[do what you will, else you're better not doing it all.]

I always make it a point to laugh it all off, 
all the things inside me and out that I can't figure.
but the loving mother of mercy knows mystery and misery love company,
and off between these offices I wander, between the skyscrapers I wonder; 
I pound the pavement underneath my life. 
Have I seen it all, or haven't I? 

Beneath the ghastly yellow light of the arc-sodium lenses plods a dog of war; 
plod I , clutching my words, promising and dividing, 
grabbing what's left of my pride to scribe, 
to scratch into these paper skins the solemn oaths
 I'd never had the power to abide before tonight,
 and I ride the interstate out between the lines 
for forgiveness and forgetting.

I've lined my shelves with books 
and empty promises,
just to prove a point,  but
That's enough.

I've never been accused of giving my love too easily, 
and tonight I've been watching it go over covered bridges 
into parishes and countless counties unknown, 
through skeletal ghost towns 
and I've watched it sink into swamps
over and over and over 
in dreams.
But god damn, I can't sink, 
I can't drown 
,and from beneath the mire, 
the brackish water brining my lungs, 
burning the words of my tongue,
I can feel you,
just like I can feel my sore sense of pride. 

  I was wrong, I promise.

I promise, then divide myself
And there I am, standing.
I'm standing way on the other side,
Free at last, 
To feed the mouths I want,
and mount these wings to the stars

some cold shiver
behind my eyes
says that someone is dragging the waters,
and why, why am I staring at myself,
staring right back at me,
reflecting right back from below? 
I'm raptured by this frozen image 
tangled in mangrove roots that 
bow under the weight of all the hanging moss,
under a drape of hanging stars 
on the warmest southern sky. 
Is it love?

Is love back in my veins
after a borderline suicide?

The earth is faintly turning, 
but ghosts slide right by me
 in the heat of the night, 
n the haze of the evening,
Am I alive again,
or am I the heart of some
of these campfire stories?
I don't know,
I've never died before.