Wednesday, July 28, 2010

somehow, rather

We are stuffed with bones
beneath our blue jeans;
beneath our hairy skin.
And we can't stop breathing
through pills and smoke and lights,
we are all in sync with something else.
We are ages and ages beneath our time,
and many thousands of years old.
We're odd dreamers, we see the unreal
and watch it dissolve, for the better.
And we have earned our mothers' hands;
Rightfully broken, to make something whole.

And maybe it is worth it
to bend down and touch our silly toes,
to converse conversely and gesticulate,
to raise our children articulate,
to meet the parents of our brides-to-be,
to sit up and speak when the world
will turn either way.
To sit and linger, while the ground
will soon be above our heads.
To harmonize our minutes with
a life we'll never want, anyway.
A dog barking, and we want to
be that dog.
A child whistling and we want to
smother him with something
we never got.
He'll never get it, either.

A ranting column, a full breast,
a stomach aching with child,
a pile of money beside
something else green.
What does it come to, tell me,
when you add it all up?

4 comments:

  1. great blog...came over from the "clarity of night" blog...keep up the writing! :)

    wishes
    Scribblers Inc

    ReplyDelete
  2. I think it means a thing called life. Another life, maybe.

    Cheers.

    ReplyDelete