It's a down-dump morning. I'm frustrated at how much sad comes out in my poems. But here they are, starched shirt and shoes laced.
xx, C
---
My bumbling life slows down
In its speedy suspenders.
And I wonder and pluck at
The green messy mess before me.
Looking it in the orb, looking at
It in the nostril. Until not much
Changes but my level of frustration.
My life doesn't answer, it just rests there
In my lap, like a sickly elder.
And I watch as every other life
strolls by. And that sick pine-smell
Dread soaks through me.
And I fluster because
My life has stopped but not yet my heart.
---
I start it by saying "somehow"
I start it by looking him in the eyes.
I start it by pressing firmly on the so-called button.
I start it by noticing that the thing started a long time ago
And I am not even late for the party, I'm into the next week.
And I can't move. Can't get out of bed, barely washed
And dressed and soldered to this bump bump bump train
To this wired clicking thing.
My bashful soul holding on and hiding like the humble pie
I ate as a babe.
---
I don't know it. The words to this song.
I can write a little poem about it,
I can describe the feeling the sounds
make on my tongue. But really this is
An old game.
And the verbs have legs and the tune
Knows the hustle, and my muscles are weak
I can hardly stand.
But I do it anyway, my leaned on cane
Turned serpent and the music
Speckles on as I hide in my trundle bunker.
This hit me super, hard:
ReplyDelete" My life doesn't answer, it just rests there
In my lap, like a sickly elder.
And I watch as every other life
strolls by. And that sick pine-smell
Dread soaks through me.
And I fluster because
My life has stopped but not yet my heart."
Damn.