leaving hearts and oceans

1 December 2009 § 2 Comments

Rush the world’s entire stage with your time
and all your waste you can manage in
construction of the governments and cultures
that lace together nooses laying on the railroad tracks –
some Peter Pan may come along
and reinsert the virtues of a more familiar age.

Then we’ll give in to our destination, and
being there once again might spark up a sense
of indignation or a reason for the elements,
a cause for all the jazz he’ll recognize from
restaurants and four-star hotel rooms –
best not to have it all, but just in case,
I keep it in the bedroom: up the stairs
and down the hall.

When it’s night, you’ll know it better, your
finger on the map of all creation, questioning
the lines and curves, or why the poets
never simply say what it is they mean.

Some day, scanning a shelf, condensed for
currency and space, containing all the Kafka
and the chaos you can imagine in one place,
thinking quantum theory and ezra pound
understand like you why they’re so connected,
attending to one another’s company like the Rhodes
and heartless poems about love and god and truth,
and the traits of decent men serving as examples
to a myriad of those addicted to the words
and snow, piled up on the side of a crowded road.

The leather that discovered that it’s rather lost
doesn’t miss the skin that refused to scar, embracing
every other owner looking through the stone
from where they are, to the point they’d like to punctuate
with exclamations of all sorts and to boil down
the rhythm of the class until all that’s left is
a lonely beating of a drum, and in some distant
tunnel underneath the earth or sea,
the sound evaporates the evidence
of some quasi-fatal crash.

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§ 2 Responses to leaving hearts and oceans

  • Mark William Jackson says:

    Ahh the enchanted life of a poet, I like your bookshelf description and the concept of rushing the world’s stage with time, so that maybe at the end of it all one can claim to have been published in an obscure anthology that sold 15 copies which would now be lying dusty and dormant on someone’s spare and disorganised bookshelf between Siegel’s “the Mating Ritual of the English Blue Tit” and “I’m OK, You’re OK”.

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