RSS SPIRIT

This is the metaphor
that had seemed garish, obvious.
A land of ambulatory dead,
alive we pretend, but not well.

And you conceived your demise unique,
how quaint, how demure:
only violence moves us, only friction heats.

The dead are here and now,
not worthy of life, however
meriting versimilitude
in sleepless beds
and trash strewn avenues.

A road that goes to the sea.
An angry guy spanks with a belt and blocks on top of a hill.
A faux freedom tree in a private mansion.
A dirty cigarette with an emotional friend rolling down a hill.
A mistaken entry into an old house, its history revealed.
Hiding in the house next door where youth was spent.
An old muscle car jutting into the street.
Tires flat, undercarriage cavernous.

Undeservingly get it right in the gut,
unwillingly overwhelmed
by joy unrelenting and quite seductive
without even trying.

Dissecting joy is no joy, let's see,
infinite promise, a wonderful reminder,
a laying down of burden, a bright light
which is to despair most caustic.

A burning, an energy, wherefore art thou joy?
The question seems moot when in the throes,
no longer fighting the cascade spirals
into your belly button and pushes the pain
out of your butt.

It is like that light at the edge of eclipse,
furry and ferocious, bubbling and boiling off
spirals which hit the deserving and not
without much care.