clamber out the cold controls
undertake no new corrals come morning
already some strange clarions keep calling out for contests
thor-heavy, we cry in the morning
collapsed on our couches, comfy, still
you see, we want what’s best for every except ourselves, where the comfort comes
soon the pale face grows paler than normal, aghast
or maybe just sick at heart
other times, everyone’s jolly.
this cat’s got some lowdown
he’s spillin’ the beans about all the secret ways, the occult texts, and growling penumbras of mystery
beard-scratchin’, yowlin’, there’s some real there
here man, have some soap, wash that mystery right out ya hair
creak creak roll the bones, old chicken bones, divinin’ shit right there in front ya face
caterwaul, that’s all, just caterwaulin’ like a cold craver, jiddering about on a hot lid
all the old fellows trapped behind glass, but O, I want
grace has an odd shape when it’s shaped like a hug, not quite an O, but more like an ooval.
but really. when the old one draws a picture that claws tears from my heart, sketched out in a moment
how does this one respond? how can one respond? what possible response could would should have?
is there only cool regard? does some hot gushing of feeling have a place?
‘my dear old one,’ i might say, ‘wherefore all this pain and sorrow when time has only flavored you for O not so long a time, even within the deepness of your time?’
but what would he say to me, except an unerring silent gaze, seeing only the trappings of my place, the bells, the whistles, the tags, and patches
Or maybe he would say, ‘be still your cool anger, only watch. and listen.’
and still I sit, clawing not-quite words from out my brain, a lost searcher, figures scratched in dust.