Friday, December 16, 2011

Slaughterhouse.

My fingers tremble.
I do not know
what's been done. Or anything.
I do not know his name. His face.
I do not know his rightful place.
I can't decipher the temperature
of this room. It's hot, but I--
I shiver with numbness all about.
My throat is caught. 
And tell me why
should one not have a right to say
that they are still so miserable?
I find words are fought with knives
and feelings feared by passersby.

I do not do. It will not do.
Bored, bored, bored.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

They've made a statue. Hallowed ground.
With eyes that burn and prowl and sound
all at once, infinitely.
But dear, I cannot go separately.
I whine; they beg; and so we stand
on feet frozen to summer land
and offer sacrifices of colored air
with tails and trails of parties, fairs,
because that's all that we can bear.
The year rolls 'round once again
and all will say that it has been
good and fast. They're ready for
a fresh start. Sure, a little more
sun and shine and  feeling back
where numbness has been on attack.

I'll tell you something, since you are
determined to make it at least this far.
It will not stay. The new year comes
and goes, like people, with quiet drums.

I heard a whimper. I'm sorry that
innocence has a way of
not coming back.