the mystery f motion

piled high
the ballot
of faces
like melting marbles
left forlorn
by the oval cut soul

into the wound
it gets in
the grease
of sepsis
and it spreads
its spiderweb
through
 mildewed marrow

the cunning of a lie
is strong
our weak flesh
folds like a petal
before the unearthly chutzpah
of the sun king

but his early gains
seized in fever
are very slowly unwound
like drawing
a corkscrew thorn
from a wound

slowly learning
the truth
builds immunity
in a democracy

i suppose this is my poetry day poem

the long winter of a night
fell fast

splintered
 between days

she was a puzzle of black hair
caught tween almond thighs

writing furiously
i try and solve
all her knots

but the tangled thicket
only gets worse
as i explicate inward

each new locket
of secret information
is restlessly torn apart

yet the intimacy
seems less and less
every year

until standing naked
in the mirror
it is suddenly clear

our love letters
are of a single soul
obsessed in itself

the old lady selling eggs
remembers that before
the shattered dystopia
there was life, and fun

the old road out of the city
and its lining of shacks
pulses of mud and dust
caress the tired immacu-lite

the big pig show
rolling down the hill
licking, killing swine
ha ha havea

they don't even clod
into the mud they don't
even knowit
wigs and all.