I have launched my Saturn
To lasso my stronghold
About the trunk of an old fir
And in my harness
That I have so carefully filtered
I can see tire marks
Destroying the delicacy
So carefully planted before me.
My disrespecting synonyms
Yet from this angle
My six shooter chops each antagonist
Down to their knees
To which I show no mercy
I have no mercy
For the main target
Of the world I’ve come to
Heavily breathe in
Lies stickered to the souls
Of garbage bins discarded.
So, I carefully sign my name
To hand written documents
That address my stronghold’s weakness
And dig my stick
Into footpaths abandoned,
And rip the flagging
From mouth of hungry chains
With Spring snowdrops.
Walking through the ancient forest
I pick up broken sticks
I pick up what has left the home
To wander alone, to wander, Ranger.
Many times I’ve shared my thoughts
With wholesome handsome faces,
In a trunk of ancient bark
I sing songs of fallen trees
That show me signs of what has begun
In silver rays of spying lightness
And broken sticks below my foot
Though an ancient forest I remain.
Each shoulder I shift, shuffle,
Creaks with passion left un-stoked.
A winding splinter soaking
In the full moon’s setting sun,
A twisted root dancing
With leaves of another season.
Little whispers call out my name,
And it’s feeling a lot like rain.
So this path goes on,
Leaves fall to the tune of a breeze
And guesses punctuate each heave
With uneven ground, frolicking madly
Amidst pebbles and sticks
That grow wilder, fonder,
Of screw-top frameworks
Settling into the pocket
Of our toiling shuffle, softer.
I’m beginning to like the taste of ink on my skin
Bleeding in black
And letters wrinkled symmetrically
With stamps that now stick
To the wings of an unnamed messenger
I have envisioned as Hermes
In a short and stubby auto
With running shoes and arch supports,
And a stripped button up
With wings emblazoned upon the breast-pocket.
I’m not following these cool habits,
Smooth trends and fine catchy style.
I’m letting those things be
Without any real help coming from me.
You see, what I’m lighting to be
Is the real me.
A me void of all this consumption,
Distraction and greed.
It’s a long line for the starving;
I’m holding a short stick to poke,
And what’s left here of me
Is all here just for you.
If I keep pretending again,
It’ll be the end of this straw I’m sure.
And if I’m not here with truth
Then I’m not here, in truth.
I forgot my song when I sang today
Though my fingers they played on,
And here I sit, all played out:
Content as one can get.
Though my walking stick’s become
A little worse for ware,
Heart and mind’s been strengthening
To build on my tomorrow.