Friday, October 1, 2010

Sirrus Poe

Signs of the Road

He sits there half hidden in the overgrown grass.
His face is much like his body behind that grass, more
unseen than seen except for those eyes, which are like
his sign. They look to those driving by with need,
with hope, with shame, calling out for one person
not to be afraid of a man who hasn’t had control
of where he was going. The signs are always the same,
"will work for food", "need help", and most drivers turn away,
even I do the same. But today, after storms
of near clear golf balls, limb removing wind, and
uncommon flashes of light, I pull over to the curb
because of my fear of not hearing what this crouched
man may have to offer. His sign offers, “poems for food”.
After asking what I think I have to offer
life, he flips to the next damp page
of his composition book, then gives me more food
to digest than the twenty dollars I give can buy.

one line one stanza one poem without you

today I attempt to write five poems of course the first one
comes around forced beginning muddled middle a shift
from objects then you again you find your way pick a trail
well traveled lined with abstractions metaphors similes
without punctuation sensual progression but where poems
were darkened by myself before you know a mother birth
person a better name child unwanted even when in the
womb certain songs baby don’t make my brown eyes blue
but not now just you no slit veins or drugs or passing out or
that urge where words had more offered an escape write
more to act less write more to move past write poems with
bad lines even worse intentions yet to write now doesn’t
remove forever being retrieved by plastic worms slapped a
few times for breathing and being unable to write one line
one stanza one poem without you to clot the wounds


water appears clearer trees flowers even grasses have no
name why would they where you are the need to breathe
has left your lungs blood has stopped its flow the sky
owns no ceiling or at least this is what I know of what you
call home I cannot stay bent over this cold unwrinkled bed
any longer cannot wait for what pressed hands turn white
for any longer cannot let sleep overtake me lead me to
shores where shells have lost their ocean voice lie in pieces
which pierce bare feet and they in turn with each step stain
the sand cannot read the map you left me here so I cannot
wish for you to give anything a name here any longer

Jesus, Mary and Father

Jesus is crucified each day
then drowned beneath blood-
tinted, sour piss; salvation caught
within bubbles that burst once saved.

His mother, Mary, walks through
Egyptian fields of sand searching
for warm elephant dung to bathe
away dirt and faith from her journey.

His father, God, sits up high
gazing through the haze at his flock.
We dance bare-skinned, picking
partners with a kiss and fondle, ready

to become one with the land.

-previously Published in Ancient Paths

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