8.14.2009

your soul, barely

your soul was hidden with hair
had on it, a few proud moles
the witchdoctor believed to be normal

we were outside on a towel
my soul was lit up and obvious
yours, we determined, was obscured
unusual and unwilling

you were the pet falcon of an old woman
you were a child’s best trousers
do you like the drums?
you were a drunken songbird put in with owls
do you smell the odor of a garden?
did you tell your mother you felt ill?
you got tired of talking
and left the tavern

an arrow, you sped from the bow
and pierced the eyes of villagers

it was morning
the children cried

you called it an illusion
you called this world a phantom world
you were still sharp
no one could hug you without bleeding

you were friends with angels
and the angels got injured

you were not concerned
your eyes were hot
you would not relax
the Blinded cursed you
and the sound of your name
moved your body like a song

you stabbed eyes and crops and the bedding of your neighbors

you fell on the rooftop
and leaked
you were dead, but glumly went and got ready to die
the man at the cemetery pointed the way
but you didn't go

you couldn’t give up wanting to be famous
you worried about what you were going to eat
you wanted to buy an engraved belt

we grew tired of you
so you turned into a rare bird to awe us

you were trying to make money
you pranced and looked sick
you were wearing an engraved belt

1 comment:

Miranda Dennis said...

This poem makes me feel like you've been reading my secret diary, the one where I put a bunch of myths and symbols down. I like it a lot.