(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.
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.
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.