Sometimes They Come Back

(the inconsistencies of indelibility)

.

These old ghosts just won’t die,
and I have grown tired of chasing
their cold white sheets. The streets
are overrun with cockroaches,
apocalyptic rain, the scent of Spam.

I am
less than these, I think. Invisible
ink and inelegant sway, searching for
a quiet way to kill the last of the voices,
the unvined fruit, the tired pursuit of
things I cannot change.

I’m
-mortal,
made so by sun and moon and broken
open sky, battered wings. These mountains
(so old, so wise, so wily)
will not whisper me the things
I need, nor heed my haunted heart.

Start a poem,
a list, a letter, a song, a gin-stained napkin
sentence in permanent ink, sharp
-ied onto your own skin, a tattooed promise.
Break it. Into. Smaller. Pieces. Re
-lease it to the wind.

This whole damn world’s got a wayward way
……………………………..of coming ’round again.

 

..
prompted by Quicky in November, day 4

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5 Responses to Sometimes They Come Back

  1. You. Rocked. This. !! Totally…I love this, “tired pursuit of/things I cannot change.” because it resonates but then also the rest just picks up speed and really impresses.

    So wonderful to read you, de…I’ve been limited on online time and haven’t done as much reading as I like and then just crazy blog-binge-writing…not very balanced.

  2. Star says:

    “the scent of Spam” … Oh my word, that is priceless! Exactly what poetry needs, if you ask me: elements of strange surprise.

    Hmmm. If anything should be consistent, I would think it would be indel(l)ibility (which, obviously makes me think of The Farmer in the Dell). And Dell computers. 😛 But here, you can’t even rely on ink being permanent. Unfair, I guess. But I understand how evaporating ink feels. It must be shy/embarrassed/bipolar. 😉

    I wonder if there is an overabundance of poems in your Spam-Box? (Hee hee. I said “box.”)

    So the first stanza sets up kind of a Wally-World. You know, like all humans have evacuated and all that’s left are ghosts, roaches, and polluted rain. And Spam, of course. ‘Cause that stuff is nothing but a chemistry project gone all kinds of wrong, and will NOT break down. EVER.

    And then you bop down to the next line, which says simply “I am,” which means that you feel like Spam (i.e., nasty garbage). But it also names God. So when you feel like garbage, you replace all those ugly words and feelings with His name. It’s the only way to talk yourself down and out of that yucky funk.

    “sharp-eyed onto your own skin” … I love that.

    “Into. Smaller. Pieces. Re” … This is almost a Reese’s Pieces line. Maybe you already took a bite, and that’s why the last syllable is missing. 😉

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