Roger fulfills some prophecies
…waterproof, like a felt swan
navigating a river of origin and ash.
My hands are massive stone
columns I cannot raise to
defend me from my own calumny.
Horses are made of the same
hide, the same will, but everything
slows down what I once thought
I could become in the world:
astronaut, archeologist, fireman,
footballer, lawyer – all died
in the morass of indecision.
Perhaps there is a tumor growing
in my head. Perhaps I am
only a man on certain days – others
a simple animal with a wheel
and a block of cheese, hollering
at any song which reminds me
of the moon, or the searchlight
in my belly that my mouth parrots
away as love. And prayer?
is the answer to the tornado
my chest makes of my mistakes.
Right now I might be decaying
from the inside; my organs
turning, each one, to fists –
come, come to me I call
at the ships lighthousing themselves
towards my jagged rocks. Come
to me and be made of powder,
blood, aluminium, bone, dust,
ash. My body is its own
civil disobedience. My skin
is dried leaves – a moralist’s dirge
towards forgetting. There is a river
inside me which I only hope is coursing
away from the dams I’ve built –
but right now, I need money
to keep away the cold. What a calamity.
What a doorbell I have now
for a heart. Forget how I’m hardening.
Forget how each part of my brain
becomes a fossil and my body –
pure fuel – tinderwood, kindling,
a cross that once held my father.
My ambition is my own crown
of thorns. There is a morning,
a hill, the sun rising,
blood in my eye.