The Sin of The Ethic, #58

A rose sun behind the clouds
peaking out through sponge paintings
of blue and green, great long arms
of light reaching down into
a pyramid, my steel
car and squinting eyes wanting
to stay frozen in this lane
on the highway, assimilate
these ribbons of dawn, ladders
to climb, long playground slides
on the horizon, taunting
gift to a child, a heart’s
deep and blushing desire.
But here is the exit, where
one must turn and head to work,
beltway leading us nowhere
around this dewy city.
Already, skin has begun
forgetting, began itching,
started longing for scalding
water. Sweat baby Jesus.

Welts raised on arid forearms
by your morning baptism
howl while you disappear
off the highway as you take
the exit, travel local
roads, turn into the parking
garage, finish your preening,
open the store. For hours
you toe the line, company
voice, animatron, robot
neither producing nor
consuming. Rose-cheeked baby
babbling prices, features,
all the while fidgeting
with clothing, fingernails,
stretching to reach the center
of your screeching, concave back,
sneaking off for a good scratch.
The voices of the shoppers
grate the inner ear, drumming.
Not once have they had this ripe,
untouchable itch. Jesus.

Red arm of a dying sun
hangs lashed to the evening mast,
leading us back thru traffic,
a hint, reminder, signpost
that where we drunk, what oceans
we ran the deserts to reach,
what shores, always wait to soak
us, calm the rash that wavers
only when we spend the day
courting, counting boxes, gas
miles, syllables, price-tag
of gasoline and praying
to an arm that distributes
such art, sells such ink, begs us
to scratch the swollen surface.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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