Mournin'

A few years ago, the world was breathing its stinky breath on me, and in the way that I was used to doing I was engaged in some fierce empathy for myself.

Heal thyself, Hippocrates instructed: well, after one rather long night of trying just that, the blues had the audacity to start leaking from the sky and looking in my window, so before long I found myself walking down to the local donut shop for breakfast, where, you guessed it, more blues were sitting and talking about righteousness, above the guns on their belt, and between bursts of inanity on thier radio's.

Frustrated that sweetness and light was not available at that location I turned around to return to my kitchen, and about half the way home, in the thick of my funk, I looked up to see God's great crimson Blood of Christ reminder of who's bigger and more beautiful in the morning. The difference between my blues and that big purple red bruise floating just above the trees and sunrise and the anthropomorphic blues I had so recently seen at the donut shop, made me laugh through to healing.

The cars driving by would have seen me bent over, heaving, blowing spittle in hilarity at the irony of such a sunrise over such a screwed up guy. Here's the poem anyhow:

 

The good of the morning is flowing downtown
Past concrete unpouring, to the musing of sounds
And the heart's of the snoring, in bed beating twice
Have taken their slack, for a decent price.

Now I am smiling at the memory of hands
Poisened with tailings; breathing in sand

My body is broken from avoiding you
The round of the Token, This hope of my tooth

Your words have hit target, I don't think that's strange
How could I forget such a face at the range
You cooly drew breadth with your dominant hand
Let fly wasting arrows toward a smiling man

Hmm... lately I'm feel my belly in shame
Congress of comfort, It's anxious, It's pained

I cannot lay fallow, forever unkempt
Your seed never shallow in the furrow its kept
The spring sun is shining on the pasture and lamb
The river is finding the thirst of a man

Pain stranger, pained friend. Your voice is a fan
It's telling of comfort and quilting the sand

Our travel so akward, this ruin ain't right
Now twenty five years on a warm gaslit night

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