Monday, July 14, 2008

Poetry ?!

ok. . . well, go easy, kids, I don't usually go public with this sort of thing. ;)

also, the formatting is somewhat all messed up. Oh well.

My Friend Greg is a Fascist

I wanted to be somewhere warm
and kept moving around on the office floor
and called Greg, who first thing
reminded me I am
a cripple
and tried to focus on the talk
but somewhere between t12 and l4
the silence is screaming
and I focus not to focus on the pain
promising myself a future
and pardoning myself the odd lapse
in discourse

I imagine what he'd be like here
the cold impassive face of this, my friend
wonder if he could see my body shake
and what it would be like
if he could feel the things I feel
the cold, the shaking nausea, and
the God
the pain, that creeps into, and out,
around, clinging into the crevices of
your awareness you weren't even aware
were there
And know what I have learned
from laying on the floor fighting tears
unthoughtfully hushing the scream
of each new breath, alone

That those are the times
to breathe into your pain
and feel it calm
In every breath to touch the
new-found steel of its core
and then move on.

1 comment:

Logan said...

Steel really is the right metaphor. Sometimes newly un-molten, sometimes deadly cold, always hard and stabbing.