Future Concussions/Domesticated Percussions

Nothing you say matters if you don't speak the language,

I'll go back to Seattle and forget 

to speak pretentious,

go to work and forget the word "coffee,"

go out with friends and forget

how to cough up hipster hairballs.

Blame it on jet lag. Allergies.

The worth of myrhh went down in Mesopotamia on this day

before mythology was discovered.

Stacks of stocks fell down like

knocked-off socks.

Mythbusters said it was impossible,
but you said

I

was

too.

George Washington's teeth were mistaken for kindling

three times on this day,

So we called him the SPITFIRE our generation needed to look up to.

And today rumbles like a stomach,

my legs shake like maracas:

Our future concussions sound like

domesticated percussions.

There was nothing that mattered

until you spoke the language of poetry:

she would be your rebound, your fall-back, your late-night-lover,

she would be

all that was left

in the times in which 

you lost

your self.

She would be

the only one

still speaking your language.

The planets aligned for a fleeting moment

on this day,

before we realized there was anything else

out there

other than ourselves,

Our white blood cells aligned into Grecian cavalries,

our imaginations sharpened like 

the swords

of kings,

we stood taller,

burned brighter,

but only

for a fleeting moment.

Through the corpses of antiqued ideologies,

through the limbs of the previous selves you thought you could be,

through masks,

through bloodshed,

through contradictions,

through helplessness,

through insecurity,

through loss,

the frailty of poetry

remained.

I can stand beneath the shade of this:

planets holding one another through intangibility,

giving us a temporary haven

from the battles within.

I can stand beneath the shade of this,

but will you 

fall

to your hands

when the fleeting moment

falls

to her knees?

An impossible battle

of self versus self,

An impossible battle

of ghost versus newborn,

An impossible battle

of language versus abstracted.

An impossible battle

of the 

impossible 

surrendering

to 

the impossible.

Author's Note

unfinished

Reviews

[rt farris]

your thoughtful intelligence is on display again. i dig it. (old school for i like it)

[Eagle Cruagh]

I wondered if it was finished ?
Just kidding. I am on the verge of
not saying a nice thing again, because'
no one answers me anyway.
Why should I tAKe it out on you ?
Yur nice. you write good, it`s a good
poem, everybody will like it.
There,
----- Eagle Cruagh