Talking with Broken Objects
I’m reflecting upon the coming day
as I examine the new moon.
Delicate gray hairesque filaments and bands
transpose themselves into clouds;
and when composed,
they patiently carry themselves across the horizon.
I ponder what you want to talk about.
There’s a bit of a nervousness romping about my stomache.
In a way, I’m excited, nevertheless a bit scared.
What would I talk about?
I would have to embark upon the trail
by talking about broken objects,
and leveled siege towers,..
I would have to talk through a mouth full of mud,
about the earth turned dark in the shadows of tall concrete buildings
and black tar rivers of cars transposed across the landscape,
and drunken Mexicans shooting off fireworks
and trash, and teenage whores.
What I have met and crossed are not to be memories,
nor paintings of picturesque dreams,
The lesson learned: enjoy each day as if it the last.
So let’s not sink deeper,
let’s not fillet the corpse;
because I do not have the slightest inclination of what to say
discord erupted into languish and apprehensiveness;
and yet what do I find on the worn mattress?
The face of life sleeping under black blankets.