You hear a song and your mind is off . . . Strange districts, end of the line faces, rain leans in . . .
I won’t stare into her grave mouth while it dances, spreading its cruel time, and unlearn what was written in The Imperial Dynasty of America. Won’t revoke my pledge and vanish, so their world of spite and petty temptation and its stone-fist doctrine can remain and flower.
I will not be struck by their flag.
The pack is out there. Been out there half the day. Erecting a Lethal Chamber to assault my window. Posting their handbills and pronouncements. Marking things. I see it. I can hear it. Hear it twist and scar.
Do they believe their straggle of fables can astonish, or conquer, my heart and its limbs? That I am some throbbing hummingbird that must circuit the black architecture their master frightens the world with?
They circulate their war, tarnish cheeks with knots of blood . . . They only seek to bruise, to mark and encrust all light with crude. They roar from abyss-colored throats, seeking, pulling on wires, calling phantoms from the grave.
They can fish, but they won’t eat my soul.
Joni's "Coyote" just came on . . . Wonder where I'm headed? Did she just say, "eyes and lips and bones"? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .
Joni fades . . . Quicksilver Messenger Service "Doin' Time in the U.S.A." rollin' over me . . . ". . . hounds in the moonlight . . ." Yeah, that's it!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment