Saturday, December 20, 2014

Reboot In The Face


Next to the Last Straw
Now I have to paw through all my possessions,
Now, when I finally had everything organized,
I have to find something else to burn.
Of course it's ridiculous! It's old, I'm old,
I'm cold, yes, bones grind but I don't see a spark.
What on earth am I supposed to destroy this time,
I ask you? This old thing? This wrinkled garment
Wrapped my vanity for years. It's fit to go up
With a real whoosh. Can't you smell
All the molded petroleum woven into its warp?
The children's sweat spun into its weft?
I don't see enough here to conjure wings,
Not out of this rag, but if this is what
You command, gold from straw,
Bricks without it, I'm powerless.

Photo: The Rockford Files.

4 comments:

David said...

Warp & Weft, shine & dine
Without that bordeaux dictating
Food to light up your face. Beauty,
Belle, bellezza, it is always yours And the children know--belle, Bellezza they say
As they grow.

David said...

Warp & Weft, shine & dine
Without that bordeaux dictating
Food to light up your face. Beauty,
Belle, bellezza, it is always yours And the children know--belle, Bellezza they say
As they grow.

Maria Padhila said...

Awww Dave. Thank you. Always a pleasure to hear from the mountain.

Slothop said...

As always, love your interrogative style & driving rhythms - I could see you penning a book of ferocious prayers. Petitioning paired w/ offerings is the ancient way.

The children's sweat line spins it in a deeper direction; I once was hugged by small children swarming out of textile shops, their limbs mapped w/ scars. Sweat (like tears) is salt, the mineral returned to the earth through our suffering. The children's own offering, perhaps. Gives me a better understanding of tear reliquaries.