You will not find poetry anywhere unless you bring some of it with you. Joseph Joubert

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Hyacinth on the edge

I stand on the edge
of wild blades and sunbeam
where the nerves cease to breathe
the fire of oblivion
I stand like an empty tin-can
with profuse emptiness within
The milk drained out
down the howling gauge;
the white litters settle down

So you believe
I am a disease
branching over your body
measuring your pores and
salvaging your bones
You call me a psycho
For I find no diction in dimes

How was it when you scaled me
upstream and hauled
your grit plumbing in the kitchen sink
Sucking noodle strings
from a bowlful of gravy?
Stinging me like bees do to pulps
Now you are blaming me.

You have a scorecard
Of paradox and infirmity
Could you number those sharp kisses
that stitched my skin…
but now you see the wound again blooms open
You are sick flogging the drum
All you know is too engineer the cry
And name it your impulse, your music.

Now the end is receiving Hyacinth
a telegram from life.

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