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Siberian Dream
So this is the room they sent me too,
not exactly a prison
but a bar stool in Russia during a revolution.
I tell the other drunks stories,
mostly lies
about failed attempts at love
for anything fallen
Weep for us;
those sent to live out melancholy
as a butterfly might,
joyous, sweet as envy
in a ‘little nook lit so bright.’
Hooked
Without losing shape,
we trees wrestle to dress
our limbs in normalcy.
What we are grows
like leaves in shackles
some would say
"all green but goin’ brown,"
injured
on our windstruck morning clear
but still asleep in the hammock, dear,
hooked at the heels.
Passions Spent
She went there never to come back.
Told her friends that
she needed a small lily pond savored by converts
under watchful eyes like hers,
the ones I tried to hold on to with mine
but words are dead tree limbs
&
I realize these kissing gestures
are just a naked grey statue
in some faraway garden.
Neruda,
yes I use him to search for
and speak through
this colorless tongue.
A Salve for the Song
Every road has its breakdown lane,
some built in slack and bypaths for veins.
I‘m on a road. Listening to Sun Kil Moon sing
long bloody meditations
about lives we missed out West.
What wisdom we hear in his falsetto stories,
our watery veins take to the heart
some news gone bad:
‘another lover’s leaving.’
This radio music medicine,
a fail-safe sad.
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