POETRY ATTIC: Brusque Angels & Cycles

// Photography: Jeff Wolfe //

BRUSQUE ANGELS

It came like God when
it came to me.
Useless youthful energy,
shirts torn in rage.

Profanity makes the most sense.
Replicate 5am equilibrium.

Betrayed conscience slips –
spill mistakes along the way.
Damn fists explain little
as girls make dull expressions.

Walk down streets
counting denominations
of currency w/ window
eyes on the watch.
Cross-cut crowds.

Contact causes slippery-slope
of disorder.

Unlikely infringements created.
The ground turns foul,
sirens fill the air.

On alert in September.
An uproar seen through bus window.
All around, young boys, girls, policemen,
in rush.

Words form taunts in all directions.
Hat brims shield the
important elements.

Trade-offs occur like clockwork.
Passing people have no names.
Girl hidden, a laugh demure.

Drastically, children charge everything.
Men lie in the street
as obstacles.

Shouted voices heard through
fence cracks.
Bag woman w/ red heels
tells stories w/ no teeth.

Restless corners
under lampposts.
Cries heard at building back,
evidences of torture.

Attitude dangles over
Chevrolet door.
Sanity dreams on a park bench.
Addictions snowball downstream.

Make the car scream defiance
through engine shock.
Let the tires light up
the pavement.

Abandon all thought.

Throw stones.
Travel.


CYCLES 

Pulled along,
made to relinquish
what had been devised.

Power, in a plan without course.
No time to understand
what was confided in me.

There was once little
needed to find
the end of the day.

The innumerable mistakes of youth
given away w/ age.
Self-exile from
hours past 12.

Eyes now open to see
the colors change.
But that marks an age
less innocent now –
it makes room for the
next ‘going nowhere kids’.

Laugh, as they laugh at me.
Watch it all come apart.
Upward eyes fell somewhere
sensible and safe.

Pain brings submission
as the room empties out.
So used to the
procession of names.
List grown long.

Unable to hold them down -
strands stay behind.
Momentarily on a different foot.

Cycles of identity
whirl, wild again.
Soon to be here and
too soon to be past.

Pick up the cloak
that fits – before it blows off.
Not walking far but
naked.

Together, a tight knit call out
becomes a scream.
Nicknames whistle
up and down dirt road lane.

Separate into broken symbols,
our way lost.
Discard and carry away
left w/ what’s left over.
Endlessly to rearrange,
never to the satisfaction
of memory.

Unrecognized intention
goes without name.
The night hides and forgives
to be seen again, to be
revealed, to stand exposed.

Drawn to a source.
Joined for an unnecessary drink.
Untamed and unconcealed.

Prepared to gaze
out of hazy eyes.

Look at the numbers
not dialed.
Acts of revenge missed
or gone missing.
Forced into a plan
that will be ignored.

But must fall like dominoes.
You were a clue left behind
in these torn forward years.
Steps counted too fast.

Each to face misfortune
discover bruised skin
won’t show ware for time to come.
Passion that burst remains
in the air as scent.

Reminders of it breed
dangers again that
well over. In tide.
I X . C Y C L E S
Still shaky hands
dangle cigarettes,
one after another.

Time slows in cold and
fever doubts abound.
Hope for eminent closure -
insides sponge to
secluded love.



I

No comments:

Post a Comment

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...