the part I find compelling
is how the longer you read
any poet
the more familiar the face
the more haunting its trace
of pain
of obese suns
of immaculate thoughts
& sunset depressions
& constant compressions
of a life often misunderstood
of pure absolution
but, no lingering audiences
& no gathering mobs
& it often leaves me sad of Bukowski
because, I want to be the one
to tell him that I understand
why his beast comes in the afternoon
or why the bluebird makes him fight
& I want to be the one to tell Lorca
That his gypsy heart still beats
& those constellations still argue with the war sky
because, I want to be the captain verse
in a Neruda song,
I want to sail on a bruised ship
bound for Grenada
with an aching bluebird in my belly
navigating unconquered stars
& steering my beast
in the afternoon…

© December 05, 2009