homecoming
"he broke my head and cracked my heart...
i felt he left me there to die...
my only man, my one and only man.."
(wendy v. kino/uph june 2010)
A dream
drowns the deaf with sound
shadows the blind with light
shakes poison drop by drop
out of the sick children
and old folk on the sofas
and old folk on the sofas
but relaxes, the gift of sleep-
no need to refocus
or recall itself.
Some blessings
blow in across grasses
opining the open meadows
sleeping by the streams
just across from
the older cottonwoods
until once again awake
they come to rest
on a lonely
runaway girl's
now limp shoulder.
slam headlong
into the pinto
carom into a custom deluxe
knock a wealthy old lady
straight out into the intersection
her heart split
melon in the moonlight
floating into the
mind of that man, that time
there cradling his mother
so brightly striking
this image- a rattler
right between the eyes.
The ones I've known, to no end
the stars in my sky, athletic
poetic scholastic wood skilled
builders riders and fisherman
the coarse in my life, beautific
in other words, of different form
will follow to that point in
an immediate long distance
where my vortex, and all
that that implies goes a-drifting
again and away
to something else entirely.
My given blessings
My awkward curses
My unwavering dreams
somehow only guaranteeing
the golden paved road
that became my life
time after time
again.
Who would-a thunk?
The youngest son of a warrior
having known numerous champions
a mentor to angelic dancers...
Never the first one to dive
those long ago morns
into the chill of Lake Arrowhead-
standing today, as a man...
No man in particular
just a man, with a chin,
two ears, and a forehead,
still seeing the top of Styx
in early February
or Baker ditch in summer
or girlfriends with their dogs
somewhere ahead on a trail
all sky as wide as any heaven
just overhead.
I would bet my favorite
pair of socks and shoes
that by this time
in the next moment
it will all take shape again,
as though a first
and the seasons
will still be just that
while the clocks move
at about the same pace
and the ones in the wrong
move just that much closer
to the things they've had coming.
These are things older than text
not as old as stars
simpler than pain
but less honest,
and more unavoidable
than shame.
All gifts
to the evil
to the tormentors
to the sadists
to the boneheads
and peculiarly unclear bastards
whose two pronged hoof tracks
still make my head throb,
are nothing more confounding
than as I have said all along:
You are writing shit on the wall
You know it, and I don't think you
Will get away with it,
Not anymore, for
"All time thus served
to date;
the pain contained
therein
have earned their stake:
The worthiness of the better."
(self pjreed 2011-12)
notes:
-words wendy v. (tucson 2010)
-photo becky's kid (nyc 1998)
-photo self (bayou pierre 2012)
-photo self (shreveport la 2012)
-quote from: h. miller "the oranges
of hieronymus bosch" (1957)
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