Monday, June 23, 2008

running back to saskatoon : bojangled

and the spill of my breasts
working the shuffle to make an impression
on the horse that leads me to water
savage pestilence got in my affairs
closing the briefcase dully
i know that the only thing waiting for me when i come home
is cigarette after cigarette on your front lawn
and drowsy over-fed rage, that you imply
using mirrors, parables
soft tennis shoes wielded blindly
without importance or any specific insult
it's like you think i have no difficulty explaining
size 10 men's bruises
to my coworkers or neighbors
it's like you see it in my shining eyes
that none of this matters to me
you estimate my exhaustion
with an arm around my shoulders
guessing at how far an inch will really go
spoiled child,
how i wish i had not made you
slow-to-laugh and i meet rides-her-fathers-horse
for drunken night-swimming.
a good way to drown, and a good way to drown your sorrows
we'll all acknowledge our respective days at the office
and step off the cold wet pavement
our blackened soles first,
soon thigh high in cosmic truths
the stars are diamond teeth seething promises
but my mouth is full of smoke and wine and pills
and the pistol...
John Wayne style lesbian encounters,
no money on my nightstand
and shame in my heart.

You won't feel it

You can get angry
or get sad
or get fired
or get a raise
but you can't feel it in your soul.

You might get laid
or get drunk
or get on with your life
after getting dumped
but you won't feel it in your soul.

You will feel rich
and feel poor
and feel sick
and what's more
you will not know your soul
any more
than a yellow finch rested
on a sycamore.