Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Turn the Page
No right way.
No one thing.
Nothing left to do.
No one tool; no right way.
Nothing that he knew.

Can't sit still;
had my fill
of drinking swill. I'm
taking clues
from the blues
and from the swinging sun.

In twilight time
and in his prime
when inspiration came
he bit his heel
and swole his thumb
and always came up lame.

The arrows point
to places past
and things that can't explain
the twisting reach of Adam's grasp,
the asp, the ox, the King.

In taking back the last embrace
he wants to show the strings
of puppeteers and drinking flasks,
the flat of Saturn's rings.