A CHIEFTAIN WAITS INSIDE
All of my tears are fears and all of my waking up blinking hearts start heavily panting at the rappings of the fist upon the door do-they-know-you, but I have written this before. This one. I have described myself as the mongoloid strange humanistically head-cocked thing with a ball cap on and earphones cupping my ears and long blond hair peaking out and I have been described, also, smoking a cigarette, looking back at you, not knowing what to say. I know, now. I have forgotten what all I said or how it was all described. My fingers bared and I do not know. Sometimes a heavenly portcullis closes over my blinking heart’s emotional face. When you’re walking up to it to entreat it to questions you have on the matters at hand, yae, we know. How and holy only you have come up to the gates to ask a question of me and mine, how have you? Calling up the center spree the not-knowing despite you, the all-things? This is just a jittery lot of words capsizing forever out one over the other like it’s nothing. Can you write out up here without sunlight? When it’s being abutted by the cloudcover, stalling weight of warmth? Can you cross the dreary plane? Together with the heat in the arms grown? I asked this to the heart-shaped sage whose visage served as a metaphor and he did not respond, but he did say… something to the effect of… How have you been, now? And, How do you do? Just some simple things. Maybe. But the words were spelled out in barley leaves. They were not taken down and digested all the same. We did not know for sure which was right and which was the way. There was no really telling, was there? Awesome suck-in-sighs the whole hearth of the earth played bree-leaved developed under the orchard’s way. Forever all of us piling up together spiritually basking in what sense of peace we can before we’re gone. I know. I don’t understand, though. It makes no sense how it makes no sense when all is clean and I am breathed in and disparaged. Waiting up for holding out the whole claim. We cannot see or eye you for down there. There are things to be believed. Husks of who I am now developing leaves. All these leaves, what’s this thing now? How can I not be busked in bright rays photosynthesizing somehow when all this sunlight brightens my brow? Do you touch down now for me? Heavenly how-have-you-forsaken-me? I don’t know how. I’m trying to perceive outside an addict’s mind. There are haunts where there are nothings getting spared out far below our eyes and hon I love you. Watch as the greens pale to cream and describe the rosy-filigreed skin of our bodies in the sunlight. In our individual rocking chairs on a porch somewhere in time. How has it come to you? For neither the outlasting nor the inspent overbearing out-of-orders have taken the place of the image on the screen. I have waited for you to describe me to you for me. I have waited to be described. Wholesome in heaves of breathing breathe for me breathe despite you wait while I dig up my patience and don it and shine. There is a joke numbing up in our throats a vast portrait of scenes. The calling-back of where were we now again?s and de-levered apparatuses shorting out. The calm hold-you-downs and not-despite-whats and nothing out sounds. Can you take me there in one of your airships? Do you have the time? I know. None of us seem to be morphing away on the water anytime soon, but I do feel this gelatinizing sense inside me bubbling out. Wait up while I call you. Far away and a part of me a part of you. There a name to this that has no sense but is wanting to be called by its truth. I having crumbled the page in my hands so it’s a large pearl with no nacre just a while plangent reflection of light on it almost a kind of sheen. A part of it a wide-swinging thrashing over the moon its own late-day rainbow in view. I’d wanted to get at what I’d been writing before, but I forget it now. There wakes up something in me so unseen it dreams a dream it’s visible at last and laughs as no one walks on by. There this canted sort of way each poem is chosen. A knot on brass to knock across the knee and make me belt it out the pain of mine that rings that rings that rings. True and only not knowing if this should be a way. Not knowing when it should end, but making it up on my own anyway and doing the thing over nothing often enough anyway. Home can I cross away can I cross you home? Waiting in disheveled light. Spangles all around around. Not a single bluish eye to seethe this way a brief despotic night can creep up in the day and be just there by the dusk. Spin its words and play its games; it is not a healthy name it has to say, it spins and spins until the whole world’s vertigo. Calm my storms come up beside you. Rhythmless in listless days and nights away alone in room despairing nothing’s getting done. Wait and croak a lonely day makes itself a largely whole uncovered wave upon the shore. Wait and hope it’s not in vain and stay a while and smile when or if you can at what you can. There’s no telling how it’s right. There’s a lostness to the saying that we are what we despise. Keep it up, dear lonely duck, keep on swimming, let the water run like nothing off your feathered back. Float on lakes, leak and glide inverted light, numb and daze away a chieftain waits inside. I swear I swear I swear.