a slowly drifting un-manned rowboat

he is feeling feisty bring him some citrus there are cuts in his mouth he doesn't know about he will pull from them silken strings burn the ends with friction and tie his shoes for good leave it all behind the air a tepid nothing silk flowing no better feeling an eternity poised hurdle with fog rising from his footfalls green loving on his lips one final swat with this burning sage and he'll be holy he'll be holy he'll be holy to be holy again would be like playing horseshoes again or having someone to hold he hasn't played horseshoes in years but it taught him things: concentrate too long on what you've decided is important and your throw goes wrong crashes into your sureties busy wisping away he wants to wake to the soft yellow nimbus of his own presence but instead he sleeps through morning his hand closed on the cord and pulling darkness closer if he can just start again he will run forever speed through the black no heavy breathing quiet save for steady wet pounding watermelon rinds in his trail a final mile and he'll be holy he'll be holy he'll be holyit's about looking for pain and hardship to become a better person - I'm too lucky, too soft, too vulnerable, I need hurt, I need damage, only then can I be worthy of anything. at least, that's the idea of the poem. Written October 25th, 2001 © on Oct 25 2001 02:06 PM PST   0 • 13