A hole of one’s own #112

Down, deep down in the black earth,
a cavity where I find
myself, as high as my head
and as wide as my stout girth.
In this darkness I am blind
to the light, kin to the dead,
strapped in as before your birth.
Did you scream then? Like confined
and silent here, no words said.
But hardly quiet, my mirth
scrawled out on pages, the kind
of which will never be read.
Plant them as seeds and they bloom.
Gardner pulls weeds from this tomb.

Sitting on the bottom stair,
fingers on forehead and palms
over swelling eyes, cover
up welling tears that thunder
down cheeks. The mind won’t find calm
in emotions, in the stir
of coals in a campfire,
in the flame and the napalm
of hormones that ebb and flair
up without warning. Infer
from these images which bomb
is a dud and which a cur.
Is the boy merely a pup?
Late to say once he blows up.

In the muckbed of a pond,
down with the leeches, catfish,
the resting hands of algae fronds,
a place of hiding, wishes
kept out from the light, buried
in a box and left sunken,
terrible treasure, scary
to the face of children, hunk
of rotting flesh. Don’t respond
to these simple ploys, this kitsch
portrayal. No mean hairy
beast is rising, no drunken
abusive father, killer
on the loose, moving at will.

At the base of the temple,
looking up a thousand feet
and wondering of the chill,
rose in the spine of the kill
for the feast, the sacrifice
to a wundergod who eats
his children, who entices
his wrath be taken. What sweet
faces they carved in the sheets
of stone, glaciers of icy
prayer asking a heavy price
paid of a devout stillness.
You start my climb in earnest,
looking always at the crest.

On my knees, on the gravel
shards of a demolished floor
broken and long forgotten.
I ask forgiveness, to pull
myself up, beg for no more
voices, stories to cease. Then
I can go home, sit fulfilled
at the table, sit before
these toys you play with again,
embrace the meaningless bull****
of conversation, ignore
parents and loved ones and friends.
Won’t that be lovely, not dropped
in with insight that won’t stop.

My first steps stumble across
the concrete, barefeet blistered
at room temperature, they cross
this cool grass, this top soil
as if it were a desert,
their temperate flesh boiled.
And the eyes, dear God the gloss
of these woods on deep green hurts
as it bores down and causes
my blood vessels to spoil.
The only voice here, a blurt
of agony recoiled.
How do you stand it, humans?
Exiled from your garden.

My callused feet blister, hard
like your hearts, like your meals,
animals blackened and charred
to a crisp, till you feel
nothing of this land you claim
to covet, to till and love.
I run past you proclaiming
freedom from the sky above,
from the sunlight that retards
your minds, keeps you unhealed
and lonesome, without a frame
of reference, or reverence, shoved
out from the womb, from the ground,
from what you know true deep down.

Mine was a life in the land
buried like a seed or mole,
and I thought my kingdom grand,
Lord of all I commanded.
The diameter of verse
one can compose in a hole
of one’s own in the deep earth
is matched only by the whole
of what you see, this great toll
you pay for your place of birth.
I see the sky, understand
how you fly with such a mirth,
despite your existence, fraught
with all the lies you’ve been taught.

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

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