Sunday, May 17, 2009

"In May"- Brendan Taylor

In May

A still breeze
Strains echo
Under a flower-tree.
Door shuts
Light jarringly
Flickers out…
Balloon whispers
Clear quiet
Silver string dangles
Carvings etch the bark
From a wet year before
Do you see the marks?

A father touches his daughter’s neck
Fingers her necklace
A gang of youths shout rape aloud
To their backs
As a joke--
Daughter grows up.

Columns silhouette
Salt with unknowns
A hot dog roasts between the bars
Last meal, last rights voiced

And here you stir,
Here you hear the bell sighing
Moaning low—reaching those who know it as
A piece of release
Where hurt isn’t anger
And anger isn’t a prize to stimulate…

Here, consciousness floats kinda slow
Light hits newness on
Twenty three years
As a phase.
The phrase of the riddle ringing out
Across the slipstream
Especially the homespun ones
Where you get a bite or give someone a buzz
Or lecture on the art of grandma’s funeral.
Communication is the key to
Learning process
How ironic
Kempt soft
Kept muted
Kept lost
Until yawning abates
A soup so jaded…

A ringleader gambles this contradiction
Five times a month
Looking in a lion’s mouth
Heartstrings jangle a keychain
His sweetheart bought him on island time.

Nervousness stains
Standing over others
As a tall pile
Small as hell
Senseless against this felt tipped angelic-ness
Silk-screening fear,
Silencing quotas,
Numbers are just
Imagined hurtles…

Marksmen and girlfriends
And self-anchoring loses to nibbled on ears
Lost and found-ness
Notices not what sifts diligently—
Al and Heather and basement dwellers
That cover-up when the sun rays.

Favoritism yields relief—
For the still
Grass-blades bring
When played on a trumpet
In a note as a piece.

Ladies men compose wrong notes
And girls buy into assholishness
Posing in their skirt-costumes
Making wagers
Painting over sexual favors…

Transient dust bites pop music.
Walking along an illusion
Ending up—
Ending up—
Quite corrupt
With philosopher’s luck.

But was this ever not here?
Was this ever an unwavering melting pot
Of tarry diction,
Ready to rot?

In May, they might know.
In May they’ll chat and reach conclusion.
Determine allusions
Losing self to the intimidating nature of red benevolence.
Ricochets back into sight
Back into work
A callous plight
Kept trite
As a sifting game.
Sifting oh so uniformly….

In May, relationships begin and end.
Become what’s missing
Each face wearing
And then,
There’s dreaming
Where cameras aren’t watchmen---
And pay-per-view isn’t fornicating
All this noise that prevents loudness from breathing…

So in May--
I remain quiet
As still as night-grass
With Al and Heather
(The basement dwellers)
With ringleaders and convicts
Island key-chains, drunken bee-stings,
Misused daughters and recycled grandma’s
And the ten thousand playboy’s named Ben
That cliché themselves from day one
Through their indispensable numbers--
Are just imagined hurtles…
And still, how much of growing
Is counting?

How much of growing is counting?
How much of growing is counting?

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