drum songs swaggering into dark clouds
1.
the crashing of these days, a great grinding halt,
iron wheels unable to move, concrete boxing
gloves tied on fists welded shut, days that pass
& lumber past in a knock-kneed shuffle, information
that streams in from multiple sources, without
literal meaning, fast television images that flash
with the sound turned down, loud radio voices
like one long run-on sentence devoid of specific
meaning, words constructed in a glass bowl then
beat to a pulp like cake batter & splattered in
72-pt. type across a vulgar waste of paper,
conversation in a bus stop as rain spittle hits
the roof, whispered voices reserved for reporting
death & disease, ominous omens that perch on
the dead branches of trees like carrion & dive
for a rotted carcass on the side of an empty road ?
2.
i want to give you a prescription for the coming
age of co-dependence, the taming of the new,
the nodding of the vox populi in strategic dreams,
the jurassic jaw grip of a dinosaur feeling, coarse
muscle flex midnight demons on a crusade for
a judas iscariot of the soul, a benedict arnold
of the wandering mind, i am a convict by the bright
standard of measured reasoning, a voice that
by definition modulates at unacceptable levels,
possesses a vibrant colorful tune, the rationale
that gets a man killed, that reduces a sacrifice
of trembling to an offer of dangerous conequences ?
3.
there was a time when i knew the floating dilemma
of answers, grasped the vagrant regalia of known
commodities, but that time has passed in silence,
these calcium days the bloated cosmology of frightened
life sits behind closed doors & begs for a seething fix,
blood hot droplet sweat that pings between the eyes,
a sort of chinese water torture, a meticulous metronome
that engenders specific anger, a smoldering revenge grip
like pliers that rip long white strips from the fractured heart,
an amputation for a paper cut, euthanasia for everyone
that begs for freedom from the clatter & clutter fragile time ?
4.
this mangled bus is about to leave & i?m not on it.
but listen closely & if you stand near enough, you can
hear what I hear when I force myself to listen,
the sound of cymbals in the wavering of leaves,
gutteral drum songs swaggering into dark clouds,
horns that blare like a five-alarm fire burning in colors
of velvet purple, aztec gold, chiseled pink mercury,
the relentlous bass line that emits a border crossing
rhythm, in the far distance the haunted inescapable
sawing of a rare violin, a wooden flute sighing your
original name, i want elaborate music that plays from
the windows, high windows where the notes fall
down like a waterfall, drowning me in liquid silver streets
& nothing else matters but purity, the radiance of being
sonic booms in subconscious
the sound is frightening
a deafening roar, the clouds
split apart like the belly
of a pig, a noise that
engulfs astral plains,
the wisdom of the ages
laid to waste in primal
screams, gutteral &
feral at the same time,
i hover one inch above
the ground, arms over
my head, cowering in
wonder from these sonic
booms in subconscious,
breaking apart my memories
at the seams, a fury of
recollections unleashed
like a snarling pack of
hounds, when wave
& warp of atmosphere
subside, i am left holding
the remains of a mutated
frightening, welded upon
me with only one chance
left to knife it away, the
wings & tail section a
thousand miles away
now, beautiful science
revealed at command
|
drum songs...
sonic booms...
mark s kuhar's fiction & poetry have appeared in whiskey island, centerlight, the american srbobran, ohio on-line, big bridge and sidereality; and will soon appear in 3 a.m. magazine and the anthology "an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind: poets on 9/11" (regent
press). he has read his work on WCPN radio, and hosts the deep cleveland poetry hour, held monthly at borders in strongsville. he is also the editor of deep cleveland junkmail oracle, a literary e-zine dedicated to the spirit of legendary cleveland outlaw poet & underground publisher d.a levy.
|
