Bought and Fat, #185

When I woke, the narrow
minded blindness I dreamed,
was traded off for a
strip of sun that exists
in what reality
I’m daily fastened

between, my apartment,
that place I pay too much
to eat in and to sleep,
and the dark dark forest,
that place I hear calling
which I fear most. That strip

was as bright as I have
a recollection of,
as bright as I have long
seen it. But since the rains,
the quaffed drops of sweat
have come, not the showers,

thunder and hot lightning,
organs and skin and hands
of passion that humble,
lowering me to my
knees, drops that subjugate
a man, that put me on

my back, in an armchair,
at the fridge, begging on
my knees. Tell me, I ask,
father of my father,
keeper of all good things,
what you want from me, please

don’t leave me again silent,
muted and forcing faith.
The rains are that tired place,
that surrender of will
and conscience that exists
between action and bored,

willing to hand over
reigns of authority,
lethargic, agonized,
loving nothing but self
and moment and body
fatigue. When I was born,

passed down the long canal
away from the bright light,
fallen down into this
infinitesimal land,
this tiny crib of birth
existence, of petty,

fed by the first known teat
willing to suck on it,
simple, soul numbing flesh.
I did not come to live
in a house of pleasure,
this temple of pleasure.

I did not come to feed
a thoughtless body. That
was never my intent.
For that I could have stayed
de-incarnated, said
no when offered. They sent

me here to hear, gather
up agony. They asked
me to listen, to ask
questions and to keep clear
the ability of
people to rise above

their impulses, the drunk
and lying falseness of
what was their eyes, what was
the growl in the pit
of stomach and of groin,
their flesh, what simplistic

and momentary, squat
self-serving lie of a
world view they’d established.
I came not for the sun,
nor forest, nor biscuits.
Sitting on a smoothed stone

in what one might label
the afternoon, banking
on a hillside splayed out
against the drying
paint on the canvas stroke

of the sun. I lay back
peering at the palace
created for this kiss
and communed with the Ones
who set about this land,
who helped me shape the scene.
Makers, with the idea

to infiltrate the ones
lost in their faith, faithless
people who’ve come up with
governments and schools
to render and secure
the course of this living,

shape it into cocoons.
This was the first mission
on which I would embark.
This would be the body
before you’s life purpose.
The spark, the impetus

for the deal one makes
to give up everything
for choosing this family,
to lose understanding
and your unity for
this town, this small body

that folds my soul-being
into thirds, and cries. I
was to welcome in sin
from the visionless punks
and the criticism
of sightless instructors

and thoughtless parents, snubbed
by all the beautiful
people. I was to stay
above it and to peel
citizens up from it.
My lone inspiration,

reason for waking was
to take in the weighted
oppressive darkness that
breeds contempt, that feeds the
anger risen up from
each person’s broke spirit,

what they have hated since
the cradle and carried
in places long hidden
and all too often seen
like a scar on the heart
of it. Even the ones

with obvious defects
from childhood seem blind
to their own longing. We
each see. We hope and plan
to start out innocent,
to stay innocent, but

then grow ugly. We take
in the ferment and turn
like milk. I came to take
the ugliness away,
to give it back to earth
and the dark dark forest,

hide and recycle it.
But this morning I’m trapped,
I’ve become bought and fat.
So when the strip of sun
whom I love, the one that
suggests that field, one

that swims across the small
resemblance of the long,
endless, soul comforting
patch of grass I cherished,
when my only known link
to the place I came from

disappears behind clouds,
never scheduled to
return, I am afraid.
I am cast off to look
at these yellow nails,
these broken feet, and worse

at the groaning scale
that shows how much of this
waste I have brought into
my life, left teetering
inside rather than push
it back out. Leaving me

on the obese, depressed,
lamentable side. I
did not come her for the
inane, or the wasting
away that all men face,
to piss and to squander

away all the good things.
I am left with few roads
to walk. Death or forget.
When I get used to it,
when I can no longer
see my own dumb opulence

then something must be done.
But what? I want to live,
but want to live it well.
lest I wither off grown
rotund and complacent.



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

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