Tuesday, February 9, 2010

everything is broken

my love too has died in January

along with my luck and that canary that used to sing down the hall

maybe some pigeons I used to know are still around

I’m still not sleeping

I’m still taking too many pills

and I’m drunk almost all the time

stuck foodless in the soup kitchen of my discontent

staring forever into eyes that look everywhere else but back

the worst thing about the weather is that it keeps sticking around

when nothing else does

when the newspapers are all going under

when the light bulbs have all been smashed to smithereens

I can’t stop missing things I used to think would be around forever

running with no hope of escape

the worms crawl on thin threads of hope under the garden of my days

the cans are all kicked

the roosters have all gone home to pray

maybe my moods will pick up

maybe the moon won’t seem like an ugly jaundiced scar on the skin of my sorrow

I rarely notice things that should matter

like goldfish and popcorn and hardhats

and the way the guts of the sky explode with every rush of another sunrise

my love too has gone somewhere farther than away

like some crenellation in the discontented Ohio of my soul

like a curled cat sleeping

like a seesaw of forgiveness

I never see the shores of rest

just a mirage of what’ll never happen

I am dwelling on winging my way out of here

I am kept afloat by seems of try

I am letting go

I am buried beneath the begonias

in the red-letter day of my rue

and on it goes

and on it goes

always and infinitely on the mend