There are ribbons around everyone’s fingers.
Memory settles like soot upon the tongue.
What arises must run away,
So the wise book says.
Inside its dust jacket,
I was hiding a comic book instead.
The mists have settled over the junkyard.
The black dog with bared teeth
Pulls against his chain.
We were playing Frisbee with a hubcap.
Half the town mistook it for a UFO.
Ah, this is the Heartland,
The Biblebelt, the Breadbasket.
This is a place to call home
And warn the kids about.
I’m a lunatic here in an ashen blindfold.
I think I’m Elvis, Buddha, Buster Keaton.
Life is an instant photograph that won’t develop.
All that has happened has gone silent.
Remember me to the headstones on the hill.
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2 comments:
Like this one. Especially the twists and turns of the first stanza, last three lines.
One line that lacks the suprise of the rest of the poem is the lunatic straight jacket line, not so interesting because its familiar. maybe the lunatic could be wearing something less obvious.
Yeah, you're right. It's proving somewhat difficult to fix. I'll keep fiddling with it.
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