Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Uncle Sam

His remembering is a silted bog of nose hairs and earlobes
grown long from his being everything he ever promised.

This is where he turns logs, bends grass, stains his bare feet
green, and balladeers his way to Paradise; where ferocious

pangs of nevermore lie somewhere between imagination
and crust; where his center culls the heat from a closeness

that tears at everything real: innocence; see-through love
emptied of wanting to hear the cold melt into a loud

and sweaty must; a hidden, never confessed match head
turned hot and sulfuric as the lingering of days grown soft

along weeks torn from flesh, red and stringy and raw –
until all that remains is wasting away into defeat

and gorgeous lines of battlefield – slick with red, wet, and soot
over pine needles as forgiving as layered down, echoing songs

of wispy reality remembered though never lived, and serving
as no real ending at all.


Included in my chapbook "The Allness of Everything" (Maverick Duck Press)

(To learn more about "The Allness of Everything," click here.)

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