Heel bleeding through my sock
I am counting minutes, eager
Like a dancer in the wings.
The weather has discouraged me not,
For I’ll be escorted by thunder
Weaving trails of synthetic cotton.
I am committed to attitudes of strength
And productivity in this cavity.
We coexist in congruency, and not at all.
My heart, detoxified and overly rested,
Loves the solitude.
I had forgotten my penchant
For Zen in my youth
Battling discord with the piano.
I was the last to run through the fields
Lying about new jeans
In shambles and desiring collagen.
For a blanket I traded my childhood
And it placates me still.
I was concurrently raw, far too adult
For most of the establishment.
This is all quite subjective.
I expedited and distilled love,
Not by way of application
But through the recognition of art.
In the face of waiting sod,
Knee socks and pneumonia
I wrote and chased men furiously.
We could publish the manual-
How to develop, escape,
Grow like a vine in the suburbs
Where every thought fits the grid
Besides the roads.
Haven’t we met before?
On floors of painted rubber,
Allegorical flowers in my hair-
I will compose the myth as it suits me.
I prefigured a morning, a decade past
In morning heat and shade of pine
Where cares were expunged
By vinegar and the need for rest.
We are more elegiac than the roots
Snaking beneath our tousled heads.
26 February 2009
