you know,
it probably says somthin’ about my outlook–
–my first non-confessional poem,
–was about fate-failed heros,
–not even tragic, just dead.
–no rewards, no fame, just dead ‘n dark,
–the sound of wind through the trees.
course, now I’ve got these cyborg dreams,
a woman who knows everything keeping–
–everything from a child of nothing,
sing-song old men with glitter glisten eyes–
–as they recant the act of forgetting.
sell-sword gruff daughters with a taste for older women,
and young-youths running through dusty plains–
–falling in love with everything–
–beautiful.
I think of nightmare fathers who make choices no one asked them to,
and dream-dead prophets who chant self-served words–
–saving savings and sloshing the souls out the side,
–drunk on too much white-knight-wine.
[sister’s chair-bound “but, I, I ain’t crippled!”,
shift sudden wrong move, she’s got pain like starbursts–
–speed ‘n heat ‘n perpetual drawing out.
will be for weeks ‘n weeks yet,
‘n then bed-been recovery after.]
{hated naps when I was little,
used to kick and scream and run,
but my mom had this silk sooth voice,
and she read and read,
middle of the afternoon,
she read Pawns of Prophecy,
and it made the laying there worth it,
just to learn what Garion ‘n company got up to next.}
seems I do all my work on this in bed,
but that’s where it’s meant to be.
