season

A Poem by h d e rushin

Please, distinguish me from various fossil hominids;

im'e an Aquarius, so picture me as a man pouring water

superincumbent on uncut grass, weighed down from the

seasons first snow.Watching something die is a question

of perception. Seeing your own dead father is no more

compose or reason than the supple of an unwatered plant.

Who would best know than me? I used to watch my uncle

work on the engine of his old car but eventually have to

take it to the mechanic. Is any effort failure? Is the wishing

the same as wanting something still alive?

Can you have those annoying taps put on shoes anymore?

All the old men from the shoe shop have gone now.

Mr Murray, who stopped fixing shoes years ago when he

sawed down the heels of Sister Elroys pumps, and made

her shorter by two inches than the other women in the

choir, so she had to stand on the bottom row of tiers

although her broken baratone was so unfitting of a short woman.

Trone died first, then Curley, then Black Gold. When they

found Old Man Gus, still sitting in his chair in the july heat,

he was so far gone, they had to keep the casket closed

so they passed out tellurium obituarys of silver-white brittle

with photos of a much younger him, standing in a yard

with his arm around a young man,eventhough he fathered no

children and, as I can recall, tended no gardens. Just drank

a lot of home made whiskey and told a lot of stories. So now

it's my turn to have and tell stories:

Am I a man from the sun?

Am I a my-word-against-your-word man? Funny, my stories

are all kept as slave to my memory, in the same drawer

as the unopened telegrams of a death, along with

the dazzlingly protean

seasons of the year.

© 2012 h d e rushin

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Shmoke-Sifted Heftlande..

mind-fuckingly morose..i died with each raising of the voice and lowering of the time-signatures...been reading quite a few of your poems lately...every broken stanza hurts me in a way that I can't fathom how it's made me reborn until it's far too late. Every chance I get, I'm gonna read your work and bask in the delusion that being this close to your version of soul escapes the fear of being dead..oh that's my friend, British Jim calling me..I shall have to call him back ironically..also, I've drank more than I should have on Sunday afternoon, but it does not discount the effect your last several poems have had on me in any condition