day poet

[revolutionrabbit]

Don't quit your poet job
don't poet your quit job
job your poet quit man
quit poet job your baby

the awakened writer
begging for roads
on the walk stood silent
like a unwritten poem
flagging in the wind
waiting for the words blowing
to be tossed into his skull bowl
getting the bums rush from
all, ragged saints
some falling leaves of scralling
happen by like Troy
all that jabber between passing souls
toy
with keys of coy, to shadowed roaming
in long
fingers of passages hidden between
thighs
of
book covers, she lays lines down

yen think, about to say like spare stardust
like a beard of thought, stroking its bloom
twilight of eternity, full moon naked in lust
twinkling in the blood mist,
make a fist and hold that, phrase like a flower
like pen of intend to cool it, be
to pry open her pages of seas, of rose petals lips
when..............the pale sad scent of turned
ones, reading between ripped rainbows and
rubble, ages of wonder and centuries
of crumbling sentences, lone periods.

that stink of ink in dark wet places, between
alleys, and dives, french poets stagger
along golden floors of earth and conspire
forging delicate universes of word sculpture
turning around like gleaming junk and culture
blinking cries in the night of flapping paper
that wind of daggers and diggers reads them

and shouting at street signs at the dawn of pawns
riddling the rags of white powders on iron letters
sinking in the snow of sideshows, drifting in bags
drinking oceans of black brewed melancholy
in jest to jester to juggle the puddle of pride
the covers of time flung back like the scarf of poets

who ride the writing down the glory hole of feathers
fly the flames of tears down the years of quite waiting
for the first line to sink in deep water of contemplated
a revolution happens when the sun shines through murk
the heavens of language, spread, revealing her passage
that shaft of glorious light beams on the sordid little poem
buries its long moment of splendor into the plumbed muck