Fingerprint

Struck by an inordinate and precarious sense...

An awakening by degree from
those shallow depths and arisen
from the most simple organism;
a child's first words are craft
of a more sacred sense of need
than those wants that must be
afforded for its survival

Drawn away from those obscure
impure lights of my wicked carnivals,
a purge, not in of some sense of loss
as the cautious & ridiculously timid
drive-- off and away from the
primitive highways that nature
endures everything man has ever
created

... of the self, this imperfect reflection
of paradise cannot hold every image
and charicature that has moved away
from the earth unto memorae's most
sacred ground that the heart keeps
fertile and green-- a noble sanctuary
comprised of such ordinary people
as the heart has known before the
road, together, upon this world
ended.

For those left behind,
a hallowed pause to mark the loss
with a mark; like a scar that will
ever hold more than merely what
pain was caused, but a place to
return what never truly ended
since they were lost...

A depository of whatever beauty
the eye adores as significant or
unsual...

There are ne'er anybodies kept
closer than this, an all too intimate
graveyard where the road weary
soul is want to come in those quiet
hours that it is safe to feel anything

Again, though it can never the same
as it once had been before...

Moved away; beyond this past and
the gate that memory shall always keep
sacred. For there shall always be those
reasons kept that anything had been
begun. Immediacy, that proximity
grown further than anyone could touch--
even its keeper, a Vestal-like flame

I can still see its light in the rear-view
mirror as I had found a new machine
for which I could move, only to stop again
and pause at this unknown river's edge;
a fresh cigarette to feed those hungry
cancers of such emotional decay that one
can always wonder if a new life is truly possible;
from here, until tomorrow

Maybe I will sleep in old Bablyon
for a night or two; or perhaps...

It strikes me as selfish to leave
this dark solitude as my mind's eye
returned towards the
reckless calliope'an sounds--
comprised of such mad-flitting
melodies and what sights
of a lost chile's wonderland

It would be untrue to say that
nothing can ever touch you there,
so much as wounds are rarely
deeper than the flesh.

How vain to strike a match
to memorae, as if these are lesser
creatures than the ones that you
had once convinced yourself
you must love;
and a slight return, at best...

They had told you that they loved you first...
And would say it again, as of it were some
kind of obligatory mantra or sacred rite to be
observed whenever it felt weak

I have always been a firm believer
that like any other god, no one ever truly
knows what heart is-- save that it must
be discovered, naturally and alive-- growing
not in some horticulturist's store, but lost
somewhere within a field

the heart is like a wildflower that cannot be altered
to transform it into some greater vision of
beauty than it was before...

and there are other times that I have convinced myself
I do not know anything about it at all.

Ignorance often seems safer than the unknown,
though I have never been known to spare myself
any harm for the loss of something that seemed
to hold my attention and keep it, longer
than a glance, steadier than a daydream

"Do no harm?"

She asks me if I had ever heard
trees shiver when the first winds of autumn
stirred, and shed away from itself that part
that it could not keep from dying

As a shiver passes through me as if
to harken me back to the carnivals of the dead.
One can always belong their, and perhaps
even believe that they have become some
necessary part of the troupe

Terrible are the passions of the Fire-clowns...

Claws of depravities torn deep
into the back, until your rage is
spent and your body is drenched
in blood and sweat--collasped
into the slender and pretty arms
that may keep you wamr and still,
or strangle you in your sleep

One learns to accept the risks of dreaming...

Dylan cries me awake, my eye
caught by nothing more than the
heart of this unknown river

"Been so long since a strange woman has slept in my bed,
Look how sweet she sleeps, how free her dreams must be"...

Dylan says--
son of a bitch steals all my best thoughts
and then sings them back to me.

"Yeah, I was getting to that-- you ass!"

I grumble as the song, "I and I", ends
knowing I will probably have to buy it now--
What a pushy bastard...

There's more dear reader, but to know
what else Dylan has to say-- buy the fricking Cd!
I'm not giving him any more of the glory...

A cigarette is a near perfect excuse to stop,
as the cops just wouldn't understand why
anyone would even give a shit about some nameless
river... let alone stop to see it

Like I really care what society expects
what I should feel or how I should react,
as there have been only a few that allow
any room to kick up their muddy boots
and track up my dirt-floor palace

Or to ride with me down a back-road
world-- as it is rare that I find any need
for speed, as it kills the endurance and
how long you're going to last. Not like
I am really into survival so much--
Yeah, I'll light another one in a minute

Not like I really into dying so much neither...

I watch the cigarette drop, spilling
and tumbling down into the current,
where it spills over the rock rapidly
and turned away around a bend

Of an electric and neon bound,
out and off toward the desert sky;
and a sunrise that threatens to be beautiful
with such colorful clouds, that
tomorrow will rain

I wonder if somewhere there grows a desert wildflower.

I can create a fanciful story of a man and
a woman in love, I can even make it last forever--
which is where the story will likely have to close.
I mean, no one really wants to hear about the rest
of the day to day existence, and doing what one
has to do-- an everyday world just doesn't sell
in the romance department

She had asked me if I ever heard
the trees shiver, when the first winds
of autumn stirred, and shed away a
part of itself that it could not keep from dying

I wonder that she knew she left a fingerprint on my memorae

I wrote a lovers-story once, though I cannot
see Harlequin beating down my door to buy it.
They both had issues and other hang-ups,
no grand sweeping whoop-de-doos
really (though the li'l gal did have some fire)

Now it's not like I am one to go around peddling morals,
but I suppose this story had one-- or near enough to
make the pass at something respectable leastwise.

The deal was that the guy took the time to figure out
something that her heart & soul really wanted
(beyond his time & company)
and then proceeded to make it happen...

This struck me as a love story, though
by a fairly twisted, and not always pleasant path
it did wend around to one single day and event.

I had considered writing a sequel to Cathedral,
but I just can't find anything more to say about it;
not that anybody is ever going to care to read leastwise.
I have never editted it, and so it sits with all of its flaws
intact-- which happens just a little bit too often

I have always been a firm believer that
like any other god, no one really knows
what the heart is-- save that it must
be discovered within one another...

It would be untrue to say that nothing
can ever harm you there, deeper than
the flesh...

I wonder that she realized she had left such a fingerprint on my memorae.

Peace,
Po