The infinite season of my life’s story is learned
like a sofa lesson, worn thin as God’s name.
And over there [pointing] my drinking hangs
on the wall like a crooked family portrait
- perpetually in need of straightening.
It’s not in nature’s peace that I find solitude
but in the hell of my prayers. And in their frail
words I hear the sound of his eternal laughing.
And through the curtains of my dark dark room,
comfort calls through sorrowed panes singing hope,
while other seasons more infinite pass without me.
I call out to him again. His name passing through
my lips leaves the bitterest taste on the tip of my tongue.
And somewhere – somewhere else,
some wheel turns the ing of being.
But here, where I catch fire and die in a pyre
of unearthly screams, I curse my flinty heart,
collect my bones and count them. Lay them out
in neat rows by memory, at last giving life some order.
And once I’m straight, I wait with the desert
for the forgiving rains which never amount to more than a taste.
Is that a fever burning? Or has the cool of me simply been
called away? I don’t need answers to these questions.
I simply quench the appetite of my curiosity with proof.
And soon enough, I have a dull awareness that my portrait
like a sofa lesson, worn thin as God’s name.
And over there [pointing] my drinking hangs
on the wall like a crooked family portrait
- perpetually in need of straightening.
It’s not in nature’s peace that I find solitude
but in the hell of my prayers. And in their frail
words I hear the sound of his eternal laughing.
And through the curtains of my dark dark room,
comfort calls through sorrowed panes singing hope,
while other seasons more infinite pass without me.
I call out to him again. His name passing through
my lips leaves the bitterest taste on the tip of my tongue.
And somewhere – somewhere else,
some wheel turns the ing of being.
But here, where I catch fire and die in a pyre
of unearthly screams, I curse my flinty heart,
collect my bones and count them. Lay them out
in neat rows by memory, at last giving life some order.
And once I’m straight, I wait with the desert
for the forgiving rains which never amount to more than a taste.
Is that a fever burning? Or has the cool of me simply been
called away? I don’t need answers to these questions.
I simply quench the appetite of my curiosity with proof.
And soon enough, I have a dull awareness that my portrait
is askew. My flinty heart sparks against my chest.
And I wait for tongues of flame to lick me clean.
And I wait for tongues of flame to lick me clean.
by dennis tkon Copyright 2007
11 comments:
D - this is strong...I am really interested in "some wheel turns the ing of being" - such an unexpected line...I also like fire and die in a pyre, and that whole stanza. The images are fresh and great.
M - Thanks. This came from a different place than from where most of my writing seems to come from these days. I'm glad you liked it.
Some great lines in this....the crooked family portrait, the bones 'lay them out in neat rows by memory', very powerful! The images are fresh. Well done.
I can't get "some wheel turns the ing of being' out of my mind.
I like the 'sorrowed panes singing hope'
The whole is strong...but I adored the stage direction (pointing).
very deep.. sorrowful.. yet full of personal insight... i really enjoyed this.....
Infinite...yes. A deeply searching piece, powerful, telling and rhythmic.
Almost religious in places - some wheel turns the ing of being - I think you've really got something there!
Intense and memorable.
How do you think of these things? I am in awe! It's like they don't make sense except they make perfect sense! ~Linda
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