Poor Eyesight and the Heart’s Desire
There was a time
I dear remember,
when fresh and new
were printed bold
upon my private menu
but I am older, now
and more mature.
I learned
there is great spoilage risk,
after a long day
in the sun or two and
time,
a maggot creature,
chews away,
as they best do,
until the darkest eyelash
comes undone, its
glue
proved not true.
Through
measured, ground,
high-polished glass,
I see my grand
illusion of you
and
your once terrific
ass!
Many statements true
or not
receive that broad applause
which indicates, in glitter-sound,
alignment with the laws
a group of social voters pass
with random muster-calls.
It has been said
in public means,
written
crude on walls,
that thoughts of sex
invade not women
but men, most often
of all.
By this belief,
it’s every seven seconds then,
those full-grown boys,
the masculine,
think of hairy parts
or carnal acts
from which all living starts?
Aha!
The obvious root of accident,
the misstep a thousand
careless feet
make,
can be linked to a native error,
one chromosome-driven mis-
take?
From this it’s true
I’m certain damned,
cursed and starred,
to think of someone’s
gluteus max.
six times making one pass
mowing across the yard!
These lines speak of a man who
wrote poems in his head all day long.
For this fellow, it was ‘twenty four seven’.
The poems were observations,
points of view,
not necessarily unique
or new,
but constant.
On one occasion,
a very large spider died and
hung from its web for
several days.
The season of year was fall,
one window was open yet
and the inviting web, with its weight
of motionless, fearsome body,
stretched across the centre,
displayed prominently.
As if required by
integrity’s law, under the subsection
regarding action of witnesses,
the man observed this spider carcass
and wrote a poem about it.
The spider loomed large,
lying as still in the poem
as it did on the sticky filaments,
created of a life’s labour.
One of eight crooked
limbs wiggled free at the brushing
of light breeze, causing
a lifeless, back-and-forth
swinging which gave
the illusion of further movement,
maybe future bug-killing.
The man noticed all of these
facts and wrote his interpretation
of them, in his head.
It was compelling,
so he then typed them into a concrete
shape, on paper.
The poem, as written,
edited and completed,
was about death,
how it hangs, voluptuous,
threatening, in the middle of
an otherwise gossamer, vibrant,
living web.
“Death…” said the poem,
in a matter of fact way,
“also stills the killer.”
What can sun do
to brick
that has not already been done?
Time, with circumstance,
shapes the mud and straw heart,
that, still eager for fulfilled promise,
will leap, head last,
toward the nearest oven.
Is it possible,
sun might further harden
that thing,
built of rock broken over eons,
ground to small grains,
mixed with the many tears,
strengthened by dry, fibrous life?
Is the furnace sun
but more ‘love’
seeking to bake
the soul empty?
The trick,
oh my dear friends,
the trick is to remain porous
though hard, insoluble
and
let those eternal, gentle breezes
(which carry the softest sand)
slowly erode you to dust again.
There is something wrong with the moon,
it doesn’t shine.
In utter dark, night tosses but will not get up,
fumble with a candle,
open a book,
pour a glass of warm milk.
Tender night fears
it will stub a restless toe
on cast off, half-concealed,
nearly forgotten woes that
wild day left where they fell.
There is talk of one whom
fills space with light but
that boss is busy,
with more sheep than
can be counted.
He might tip a cup to salve night
but is less than careful,
will not remember
a tense drama when the last one spilt.
What is to do
and save night’s dreaming?
With the moon turned off,
no clear path shows.
I wish to make something
that calms the heart
but I can’t do it
so, I strangle on disquiet.
I try to sing life
all the way up and out
but I don’t have enough air
so, I hush and deny it.
These are things which thwart
and swat at me.
I keep buzzing and,
still there is no satisfaction
I see
at the great lake’s edge,
a boundary shaped by man
in concrete,
as if true line
were something obscene,
two fishers, a pole,
a boat, old jeans.
I can
name a colour for sky,
measure stillness of water surface,
savour breeze,
feel the weight in
one summer day
as its line plays out,
hook and sinker.
Mad birds chatter on about
something while
I am leaned
against dry wooden slats,
my arms stretched along
the well supported back of
a village-supplied-as-courtesy
seat,
thinking.
Suppose it is that I
write this story,
create you,
as if recalling some dream,
with place and characters
appearing real,
the facts attested
by my
nose, ear or eye …
out of odd
atoms in vibration,
the wiggling bits
needed to produce
scenes that never existed,
and people and time
and God.
For the length of what moments
remain,
I have turned the air-conditioning on
and sunk into a pillowed couch,
with a dulling drink
in hand.
I am roughed by my work
and by circumstance,
arthritic, worn, made
numb to finesse.
The ‘news’ barks,
from a back-lighted big-screen,
that everything, everywhere
must be aflame.
As one more among many spent
witnesses to the blazing end,
my head droops down,
bends
away from high definition
colour
and cheap stereo sound.
Is this what happened on Mars
or the Moon,
some ancient while before the cameras
touched down?
How beautiful the birds were
yesterday.
Hard at the work of making
living look
easy,
the fragile creatures flew back and forth,
making a God-awful lot
of
noise.
The most annoying, repetitive sounds
were ones having to do
with territorial rights
and love-making,
those two things which I do not have.
Jeez.
I got up and closed the damn window
but
how beautiful the birds were.
Flashes of heat and colour,
zigging and zagging,
almost dragged my limp soul after,
like it was a wasted bit of plastic
bag
got stuck on a talon.
I noticed the whole,
excited scene
and,
even though I closed the window
with a thump,
I do feel better.
Robert On The Air 