New(er) Poems
Still relatively old but few (if any) have seen these, so they are new in a sense.
Late Offering
Apply the moon, oh taskmaster of persuasion,
to the town of swept loves.
It will further the traffic of slipping hands.
Never mind the fragrance of need, quaking
stares at empty plates. Do not regard
the water that slopes into the man’s mouth, softening
his throat as he offers optimistics over thinned lips.
The lights will collapse
and though there’s a slight notice, that worry falls
far shy of all the tears the spoons,
the knees and the baths will chorus.
Remind the rivers which feed this sagged town
that memory can balm as well as burn: the woman’s
shoulders have not always been cold;
beds not always unbalanced and static.
Dear Argument, if you ever had a noble office,
stoke the houses left half, cite the embraces
they harbored, and petition the warrant of these futures.
Apply the moon, oh taskmaster of persuasion,
to the town of swept loves.
It will further the traffic of slipping hands.
Never mind the fragrance of need, quaking
stares at empty plates. Do not regard
the water that slopes into the man’s mouth, softening
his throat as he offers optimistics over thinned lips.
The lights will collapse
and though there’s a slight notice, that worry falls
far shy of all the tears the spoons,
the knees and the baths will chorus.
Remind the rivers which feed this sagged town
that memory can balm as well as burn: the woman’s
shoulders have not always been cold;
beds not always unbalanced and static.
Dear Argument, if you ever had a noble office,
stoke the houses left half, cite the embraces
they harbored, and petition the warrant of these futures.
The Support of Clean Lines
I have lived another month as a rectangle,
rigid against every raw edge that
rubs my horizon. There is a solemn balance,
some say, in such steadfast structure, as if
a choice had been made to pretty up my desperate
limbs, as if the need for undisturbed sleep
did not depend on living as a solid state.
By the time you see my sob notes, by next week
even, I may have swapped this bracket skin, dissolved
into a teaspoon of salt and embers. If you ask
where my mass has fled, hoping to close
your eyes and again kiss a body suffused
with pangs of peace: It is late, and I am grasping
my block of a body, trying to outwait
the pivot of your verdict, but I am slipping.
Finally, when we fall apart, I only want that
we are close enough to each crumble in tow,
obscure our borders and enfold
the remains of our mistaken monuments.
I have lived another month as a rectangle,
rigid against every raw edge that
rubs my horizon. There is a solemn balance,
some say, in such steadfast structure, as if
a choice had been made to pretty up my desperate
limbs, as if the need for undisturbed sleep
did not depend on living as a solid state.
By the time you see my sob notes, by next week
even, I may have swapped this bracket skin, dissolved
into a teaspoon of salt and embers. If you ask
where my mass has fled, hoping to close
your eyes and again kiss a body suffused
with pangs of peace: It is late, and I am grasping
my block of a body, trying to outwait
the pivot of your verdict, but I am slipping.
Finally, when we fall apart, I only want that
we are close enough to each crumble in tow,
obscure our borders and enfold
the remains of our mistaken monuments.
Quiet The Seething
I’ve outgrown these pity boy bones, expired
my allowance of wrath. The register of my grievances
is tempered by the silent teethy light hovering
about the day. A guarantor of whim has never
been real, a secret balcony of success always
declines to appear. Singers of woe need to convert.
Motherfuckers, awake from your impasse
of pout & petulance, then the vista of solid
conflict will unfold. The battles impressed into our programs
are resolute enough; they need no baggage balloon
to make us tick. Expire all your vendettas
to girls & fathers & friends, sons.
Gasp the free air, exhale all the left loves
lingering, and admit all this righteous rage
can never rewrite your unfurling epitaph.
I’ve outgrown these pity boy bones, expired
my allowance of wrath. The register of my grievances
is tempered by the silent teethy light hovering
about the day. A guarantor of whim has never
been real, a secret balcony of success always
declines to appear. Singers of woe need to convert.
Motherfuckers, awake from your impasse
of pout & petulance, then the vista of solid
conflict will unfold. The battles impressed into our programs
are resolute enough; they need no baggage balloon
to make us tick. Expire all your vendettas
to girls & fathers & friends, sons.
Gasp the free air, exhale all the left loves
lingering, and admit all this righteous rage
can never rewrite your unfurling epitaph.
The Waking
Loss builds up a skeleton, which has assumed
sovereignty of my body. The hands believe they serve
a purpose when they reach for the solid weight
of a command. They cannot see their ends
relieve no works or worry. Someone must stand
fast against the collapsing air if they hope
to preserve their luck of life. Yet when your bones
have been sheered into a fog, the vapid canals
of your body have small prospect of success.
We measure our defeats in degrees, aiming to survive
when we have no claim. I refuse, by all rights,
what I know true and lift my arms up again
because, foolish and stubborn tools they are, they still
mind me, trust that our days must be fulfilled.
Loss builds up a skeleton, which has assumed
sovereignty of my body. The hands believe they serve
a purpose when they reach for the solid weight
of a command. They cannot see their ends
relieve no works or worry. Someone must stand
fast against the collapsing air if they hope
to preserve their luck of life. Yet when your bones
have been sheered into a fog, the vapid canals
of your body have small prospect of success.
We measure our defeats in degrees, aiming to survive
when we have no claim. I refuse, by all rights,
what I know true and lift my arms up again
because, foolish and stubborn tools they are, they still
mind me, trust that our days must be fulfilled.
Answer, Thank You.
The order of my sleep has been too distant
from the shuffled spilling my brain culled for years.
Too much comfort in the rolling months of divorce
from rapid word love. One finds many reasonables
to cease. The rodents of the street
bite up all your time and your watch whispers
more ambitions for your hours to seek.
Ask the compass questions after indulgents
& divergents slip their hands back out your pants:
Is your life made?
Let us now praise those who align our doubts
and cast light in the dark tunnels of art
we left passive and festering with slack.
It only took a flashlight in the eyes
to embarrass me awake, to singe the throb
in my brain back. I’ve been clarified:
all the time I applied excuses, my secret
seeking was a voice saying yes –
Stop stopping, revise your days.
I’m anew inspired and to Answer is all:
the beautiful blame, the sumptuous stigma.
The order of my sleep has been too distant
from the shuffled spilling my brain culled for years.
Too much comfort in the rolling months of divorce
from rapid word love. One finds many reasonables
to cease. The rodents of the street
bite up all your time and your watch whispers
more ambitions for your hours to seek.
Ask the compass questions after indulgents
& divergents slip their hands back out your pants:
Is your life made?
Let us now praise those who align our doubts
and cast light in the dark tunnels of art
we left passive and festering with slack.
It only took a flashlight in the eyes
to embarrass me awake, to singe the throb
in my brain back. I’ve been clarified:
all the time I applied excuses, my secret
seeking was a voice saying yes –
Stop stopping, revise your days.
I’m anew inspired and to Answer is all:
the beautiful blame, the sumptuous stigma.
Copyright 2016 Jim Bush
