if rambo sewed curtains
instead of his arm
what strength would he
place in the cotton,
resilience to tugs and pressure
from a climbing cat
or a child wishing
to see snow from a
winters window,
it need not be war
it need not be pain,
sometimes curtains close
out the things we wish
not to see,
but does rambo need
to sew them every time
Rambo
damn i need a poem,
to fill a space
some come
but do not linger
like the fart after a good meal
i subscribe to images
that like popcorn
during sex
adhere to skin,
a tattoo unable to shift
slice and slide onto page,
i think of bruised moons
and swelling sun
complicated paintings
of a scrambled mind,
as if my ear
was to my own heart
the beat was not right,
so pen scrawled over paper
chased by some nervous undoing
your reading it now
so i guess it is done,
let it linger
let it breathe,
i hope it gives something to
you
old ghosts play in a orchestra
before painted ladies
across a golden bridge,
memory sepia toned
kodak instamatic
lingers too,
white house lawn
protest placards,
my poetry read aloud
younger me
more potent then,
squint at the sun
absorbing light,
nature my bus to salvation
notation and tune
may argue with me,
i know where i belong,
war and ever wishing peace
the lick of history
cannot salve wounds so many,
shade of tree a haunted place
my grave and i
knew what path was ahead,
so remember and read
wisdom is a growing child
needing nurture along
the way
the clock as a passenger
looks with helpless hands,
as time often cast upon
the rocks of mans momentum
stalls past and present collide,
memory that flattering
cinemagraph of the synaptic’s
relays something other than was,
short breaths come
falter far from the heart,
we as living in this space
age,
flesh wither
wrinkles cluster and deepen
bones become fragile,
yet we strive to linger on
place ourselves as memory on others
so that it is not in vain
even a fragile hand held
is a memory,
cruel tides wash through time
that pull and toss you about,
so steady you remain
until that moment,
that flesh becomes shell
and memory is a function
of recollection,
not ready
it happens
now it is time to accept
and face your own reflection
again
velvetmedia 