Home of random thoughts, misguided musings, wicked words and the men who make them.

Friday, June 09, 2006


He is a Kaiser
in his green t-shirt and shorts,
round wire glasses
instead of pince-nez;
he is fat,
not indolent, but full of earth.
His arms wrap a huge box,
he huffs in transport, but not to excess.
I smile as he passes, and he deflects it.
"Hi," he replies,
cold into my eyes,
a crease of suspicion
in his low bugle.

I believe that a key of loving
absent all else
is to see the hopes of another.
He has none in his eyes;
I percieve his heart's regimen:
stark bread
promised by the Book
(a version wrought with hammers),
brisk duty,
and no trouble.

He is fine to himself,
knowing he wrongs no one through action.

He turns at the dumpster,
having decided to reconsider me.
But I simply do not fit.

I am but halfway.
Today I am a sinner
unforgiven and only partly repentant,
having once leapt
from the regulated, proud camp of primers,
austere recipes,
for a suggested shore
of riches --

to be natural;
to be free from the Devil,
for having forgotten him in me.
Tender enough
for shaping by whispers --
and not exclusively for myself at all.

But I am not yet arrived;
not quite wholesome
nor cleaned,
nor even quite standing.
And in moments,
eyes bearing conditional righteousness,
and good reason that I be abandoned,
are all that is needed
to wall off the Promised Land
until I can strain and brighten
the juices in me,

cleansing a fathomless anatomy,
which I only begin to know,
until my eye responds,
vanishing the stones:
the ones that separate without,
and the horrifying thing
that sometimes my heart becomes.

He goes up the stairs unfazed.
I, not yet my own, nor clearly God's
am relieved to owe him nothing.


Blogger Elias Infinity said...

Very nice. i saw a movie based on Vincent Van Gogh's life called Lust for Life with Kirk Douglass. I hear some of his desires in your poem.

3:40 PM, June 13, 2006


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