Daily Archives: August 29, 2003

Hell is to the North

They say the way is often well-paved and leads
down along the map. But I have wondered, lying listening
to the constant rain, about the benefits of concrete
and steel until it dawns on me.

The say that Mecca is to the east or west,
but when you’re on your knees, the direction is down –
to me, that means the South.

The sins in the cities of time are alloyed
from two parts innocence, one part greed and often,
a helping of guilt for good measure. Opportunity,
they say, canvasses more limited neighborhoods
than he used to. If you ain’t on his route, he won’t
knock.

But I know this – real chances don’t wait; they don’t
stand at the door and look in the windows. They’ll slip
in the kitchen by the screen, ’round midnight, like a thief,
and your wrought iron gates won’t help you none.

And further, when the sun won’t as much as shine
there’s not much chance of seeing the light, you dig?

You can sit here in darkness and cold, if you like,
But maybe you’ll be doing it alone.

I say, “That’s Hell.”

As for me, I shall move down to New Orleans;
and when the wind blows heavy with sweat I shall laugh –
for although rumor and sense might otherwise indicate,
the actual gates of Hell are located
much further North.

1995

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Insomnia

at one a.m., when sleep won’t come
and my thoughts ramble, loose
in my head like marbles in a tin can,
the night air still oppressive and thick
under the carport where my cigarettes
call out their siren’s song,
silence and the cicadas drowned out
by the abrasive whirr of central air units
next door, down the street, one block over,
my body falling down with tired
that my too-wired mind
refuses to acknowledge:
these are the manic times, the hours
that stretch out until dawn and burn
what wax is fresh and virgin clean
from the candlestick that moves
this weary flesh from stock still meat
to animus. in a minute, these few lines
will finish — then a smoke on the front lawn,
a cup of chilled green tea,
a half-assed yoga pose to tease
my weary bone-tired joints,
then off to lay in bed awake
and count the minutes
until they blur together in a hazy
alpha state where no new dreams come —
they are afraid to disturb,
to start anew the wheels of cognition
that so obviously need
the lubrication of a soothing slumber.

29 AUG 2003

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