Caught (Poem)

I.

Untended love.

Still virgin.

Tormented by secret passion and domain.

Unable to surrender self and hiding in a shell of undone dreaming.

Accept the pedestrian for reality and shun truth from light.

Burn like a heater that cooks air without thermostat.

Melt on the heart of man’s expelled air.

Thought tormented by memory blanks out messages of wrought complacency.

The old be old.

The forgotten forgot.

II.

In times of prosperity happiness swirls: the eddies of generality.Congenial spirits mock the forsaken. The emancipated.

Life encouraged to flourish, but cannot when weighted by the volume of the known place.

The unknown dunce of too much time spent foraging berries of mediocre living.

In the trailer. In the track-house.

In the cliff house of climate escapes the soul-joy music.

Music of unrequited oversight in torrent of token gesture and posture.

Filled with lice and eggs, unhatched.

Slave to knowledge escaping fulfillment from the virgin underbelly of burned-out flesh.

Beneath the silence flies the mass of pregnant drink, from which heavy mounds belie.

Moaning.

Memory blanks again and the surge of renewal returns.\

Vigorous on the silent night of empty synapse.

Cognition begs attendance and the spirit fills transformed.

Electricity arcs pink and green and raw with the rainbow of promise.

Aisle ways ripe with passion tend to neater matters of art, and functional purpose takes hold of the fruit it labors.

Nighttime darkens the basket the old man carries and screeching trains halt the scraping cane of the old woman.

She does not understand a word.

The stoic belly of a bench holds trappings for a next day’s meal, the final pursuit of the elderly lost and benevolent.

The functioning frail carry on by day and screech by night – all those things that operate south of reason.

Unwrapping the mime of complex thought to its barest point and, like a faulty bishop over a child, exploiting the favor of another joust.

Itself being final and resolved to acrid smoke-filled coming.

Collegial is the art of learning.

And as the mountain builds the river begins to overflow and pour its contents downward.

To the valleys.

To the sickly, thirsty basins that do not appreciate the path by which the refreshment comes, but only to the heaping bounty that results.

Flowers of truth, flavored with pure and relenting difficulty, bloom in successive, sunny beauty.

The second more radiant than the first.

III.

The test-tube of civilians.

The acronym for complex manners is written on the sign above a station reasoning that matters are held in confidence and truth, when, in fact, they are not.

Forms are detailed and handed over and signed.

Forms to perplex and complete a cycle.

Sloths beware! You are anonymous. These forms are for you!

And befuddled they remain who attempt to resolve lack of wealth and power through these conventional means.

Manners go far.

But not-so-far as they have been taught without knowledge of the forefather’s way – knowledge beguiling knowledge that careens toward hazard.

Shelter a moment away and go empty handed to the bard of indignity.

Counsel me tonight, led by understanding I cannot justify nor deny.

Attempt treason to my house before the sickness thuds outside my window and wakes me from years of question.

Tonight the sickness lies like a foul breath on the back of my neck.

Vile on the package.

Crisp in the familiar face of want.

Crackle goes the wrapper when opening a cake-filled mightiness that precedes any volume of will.

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