Luck survives only in the lives
of those who are lucky
Hearts are crumbled in the manufacture
of poverty and pestilence and war
Famine slims those who dare
to ask for more joules on the side
in salad confessionals
and energy counting gin houses
We are diminished, shaved and lessened
to a carbon core; we plead
Charcoal sticks are snapped
between fingers long used to doing so
Smudges washed immediately
to rid stained consciences of evidence and folly
A voyeur is no longer secret when he loves to watch
out in open spaces through digital retinas
Train crashes are his thing
and you participate with the threat of an eye-meeting
A glance; a shotgun look at the tragic mess
The afterclap a sting in taped-up boxes
containing the principled madness of ancient times
When cures for disease and melancholy
fell to gods and shamanic fires
Drugs taken to clear conciences
we hold our own prescribed rituals now
Engaging no sense, just instruction
swallowed with three day old juice
Losing something; moving on, gaining more
but what sweet sadness for that which is left behind
A voyage with new boxes; still closed, in production line attics
A tale told, a story sold; a scene of lovers,
hastily drawn in a cross-hatched embrace
Still a chase; not old but a youthful, scratchy
entwinement of gold, discovered in unlikely places
Let's just live now; do it here, instead of going home to get changed first
Walk on beaches in old clothes,
not appearing to care what we think
Our thoughts can be wrapped up,
greasy and hot,
in old newsprint for a while
We can throw them away when our bellies are full
We may be hungry again soon
but for now,
it brings peace and satiety
SRWB 2010
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