by the romance of falling,
to be the tears
rolling down the face of the Madonna,
falling, forever falling,
gracefully pirouetting down into the gutter -
To live in the eternal 3 am of the soul,
to be forever leaving Eden,
to luxuriate in loss,
to revel in an opium cloud
of anesthetizing pain,
a beautiful dying star
consoled by its inconsequence
in the face of the infinite -
To be free of any power
except that of self annihilation -
I tell her the earth is falling
it's not where it used to be
She tells me it's the angels recalling
us all back where we need to be
1 comment:
Death swooped low over Louisville the past couple weeks, taking along with it a couple folk from the village. I'm not dedicating this poem to them; I didn't know either one of them well enough to associate this commentary with either one of their lives. This poem comes from an orbit of ideas that I've tapped into for a while, and from the general atmosphere, as well as some of the conversations I've had with friends concerning that atmosphere. If there is an influence of current events on this poem, it's that I perhaps sand the edges a bit, pulled the rhetoric back a bit. It is a simple poem, a sad poem, and it says what I would normally say with perhaps a bit less accusation in my voice.
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