I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Work

You think about death a lot
when you lift things for a living.
I stay healthy and my back is strong
but my wrist is sore from twisting it.

My shoulder blades ache underneath-
I hurt myself sometimes and it’s harder
to work. It’s easy to think about death
when a small piece of you goes bad.

I’ve pictured my knees crunched flat
by the long iron conveyor belt so often
I can feel the endorphins loading
their guns when the belt rumbles by.

The mind/body dichotomy becomes
the rag of the body damp with its mind.
Sometimes I can feel gravity
pooling the first drops up at my feet.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

The Plains

You’ve heard it said that the mountains are topped with cities in the mists of heaven,
that the gods reside as far from us as the heights of Earth will seat them.
I say go down to the plains where the giants cannot hide and so are never seen,
for as long as we’re with them, they’ll stay up on the knobs of the devil’s spine.

You’ve heard it said that there is death in the valleys where the bones are frozen
in the shapes of strange animals that simply quit moving. You’re near the aching heart of Earth.
I say go up to the plains where Flesh and the firmament meet in a shifting skin of grass
where the ghosts are pooling up knee-deep and miles wide with names the length of songs.

You’ve heard that the ocean is filled with the progeny of human wonder,
that your footprints wash out into the water and salt the past with your presence.
I say walk through the plains where tide-less time has absorbed the shore,
where your footprints wash away in sound and the ghosts can barely believe you exist.