fugitive432 Poetry (23)

Mr. Patient waits and waits
Some say that he procrastinates
Or needed time, or was confused
But I ask, is he not just overenthused?
The days they pass, the hours fly
He's preparing to make an effort to try
to tempt the possible consideration
that there's more to life than Mr. Patient
But maybe he's stuck in a rut in a ditch
in a gully beside a gutter which
sits firmly in a hidden furrow
crevassed within a red tape bureau
enveloped in a foggy mesh
of patterned discombobulesh
Whatever the case it's plain to see
he really doesn't notice me!

Language is a wrecking ball
undoing silence, sweetness and song
blasting out peaceful ancient cities living
along nature's hillside

Language is a hold-up
a stop in your face
violating your contentment
and sneering on your race

Language is a possession of
the once well tongue
that becomes sick with lust

Roaring out through the eyes
of its holder's soul
language is ego
hanging out of unzipped pant
growing like a weed
in a bed of down

If only it could begin with a fight
then we'd have nowhere to go but up

Instead of beginning at the top
and then removing points for imperfections
as they are uncovered one by one,
we would find our way out of a conundrum together
and have the tale of our survival, and good graces,
to tell forevermore.

Why did they bring flattery to my door when I cried
Were they propping themselves up on my bent over back
Picking the berries growing above the window
to plant the seeds of Yulomi?

Did the wizards lie their ways into the curriculum
Make me pay for a collection of jokes tucked away in
unannounced homonyms
Knowing the world would sit by and profit from the transaction
never complaining
Mute world that it is

So now I bring him diamonds and his blind eyes keep their sleep
and the hands that he lost when he dipped them in the grinder fail to tell him of the shapes
And he sends words flying from a loveless mouth
defending his pedestal among the obedient pets of the canyon

I really thought maybe he was doing the math

Turns out it’s only a machine
spitting spit spit spit

And though I did read his title, put it through my private gentle brain (and worked and made love to it with my mind) turns out he doesn't know the meaning of reading.
When I couldn’t get any further I stopped, but what does he care of his reader?
He cares only about the petty flattery.

So tell him to go and get it.

(Go and get it, little dog)

Maybe I lack proper experience
but I have found
that when love's song starts to play
just behind it there is a window
with a hole freshly grooved through it

Love is one of those things
that always needs to be excused
(and I'm not talking about the platonic kind)

It is the embodiment of nonrestraint, of a phrase
presented as a question but that really knows nothing of "No"

When love enters there is mud on the floor behind it
or a trail of broken glass
that needs to be cleaned
And standing sentry at its proposal is a
mathematical formula that determines
which tresspass will go unnamed
and which will not

silence is footprint
of leaf shorn from branch
before the winter

Trying to make her way back to the road of loving,
memories meet her at their posts...

"This is where you last held hands,
it was with me
and I tricked you"

and all such sorts of things say the ghosts.

And visions of slipping
at those dangerous places,
and visions of being swept
into a dropping abyss,
are all that inhabit those places
that she only seems to be able to begin to visit
before the ground gives.

She tells herself
"Fight memories with tenderness for the new open heart:
Give only tenderness"

But every time she starts towards tenderness
there reside the tenants of memory
who somehow seem to have a lease
that can't be broken
even after she's long happily left them behind.

In a memory of places that you’ve been
But are no longer
Like a foreign country where you once settled
And absorbed every level of light
What stays with you is an awareness of perfection
The oxygen of the knowledge and experience of balance

In the memory is the eternity of health
Health that waits for you when you are busy
Inside of life and its momentum
The memory waiting, that never goes away
There because it has a home within the health that you share

There in this memory there is the inevitable pain
The pang of desire for things no longer within an arm’s length of you
A street you once used to frequent
A monument that once used to repeat itself in shadows
as you walked by on your way to the conservatory
A bakery where you used to pick up a teacher’s favorite treat
The spontaneous positions of a river constantly changing levels
where you would prop yourself atop the 'banksteps to have your lunch
wherever it would let you

And as the richness of the present increases,
Your private presence built by memory upon memory,
The significance of those characters--
That happened to be there once upon a time--
Shrinks to its rightful size
And the new people you meet
You only manage to bring to this best new position
Where everyone is a distant perfect observable picture that can never disappear
Never leave
Each inhabiting the new place involuntarily
Each forced to leave petty motivations behind

And as you harvest of them they harvest of you
And you pray
That the machines that keep us together
Will forever grace us
With this touchless
push and pull
When we are
ever and again
down

blue eyed petri dish
with pupils like sea weed bits

washing in the shoreline
in barely tinkling waves

with sparkles of sunshine
over sandy reminiscences

calling unwet fingers
to remember

what it felt like
when life

was just
a vacation

Build a friend today
one that will never go away
one that will follow you happily if you just let in
don’t say no
don’t contradict the flow
i know it’s hard to do
but if you don’t
you’ll die and no one will know
So go
start building your friend today

my prince came twice
and left as many times
but will there be a third?
i wait and wonder by the web
and stir the whey and curd

my hair it needs a wash and blow
and started to grey some time ago
and the spider that used to scare me best
now stays for tea and a game of chess

and when the morn arrives
i hear the traffic cries
and stay tucked in my bed
no sugar plums in my head

knowing the child he promised to give
was only a ruse
and would never live