One Foot Behind
A Poem by Eclipsing Moon-blood red


"A story has no beginning or end; arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead." Graham Greene, The End of the Affair



Running out of time , one foot behind.

A very old saying and very old thought.



Did the thought come first

Or did the saying produce the thought.



Chicken or egg

I ve always thought that the egg was laid



So if God created the animals first

Were We behind at the



inception?

creation ?





"A story has no beginning or end; arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead." Graham Greene, The End of the Affair




© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red

i woke at about noon today
and opened a window to air out the room-
it smelled like a ***** girl that i don't
very much care for.
and i put on some clothes and
left and closed the door behind me.

that below you,
your feet,
your soul..
something stirs from the ancients
awakening this new oblivion..
you ask how, never.
could it be just,
simple
hunger..
the fright with no recover
for no means lay discoverable here..
land frozen, bitter.
and may i add,
succinct,
short, sweet..
do not falter, new directions
create the life you've grown to know quite well..
suffer, yet prevail.
though still and still,
that empty
fills up..
void full of fallacies like
what you see is what you get, where's the faith..
in the world, yourself.
you must go search,
you can't
let go..
for that which hides is worth finding
in both the journey and the resolution..
let your ship set sail.
be the captain,
guide that
helm through..
endure whatever comes forth
to misguide you, deceive you, taunt, block you..
crush the ice, bring hope.
numb to the bone,
but wait,
the warmth..
euphoria, achievement's
best reward when such struggles, outperformed.
you've reached the goal,
now make two more.
failure comes, and
failure goes, but
success is worth more than a thousand stones.
port, bow, starboard, stern, compass unbeknown,
never hesitate in changing your course..
follow the north wind,
let it take you home.

Through that hole in the roof,
devoid of tar and shingle, I
                                              drip.

From that shower head
that needs just a wrench twist, I
                                                      drip,
   ­                                                   drip.    
    ­                                                            
That­ patch on the driveway,
beneath the car, just tuned up, I
                                                      drip,
   ­                                                       drip,
    ­                                                   d r i p.

In the back of a dream,
that stirs us to wake, I
                                     drip,
                    ­                               drip.

When that old dog only
gets older, sicker, I
                                drip,
                         ­                   drip.

Where nose ends and
cheeks turn into chin, I
                                       drip.

On the counter top a bottle- tipped,
chipped. I can't recall, but I
                                               drip,
                                                drip.
­
Overflowing and fraught with guilt,
a kettle of doubt, one carelessly spilt, I
                                                               drip,
                                                          ­    drip,
                                                      ­       **d r i p.

hitting the green
makes me want to watch the blue
twist baby twist
so slow they think you are a *****.
but I have watched you all day.
and know that you  get *****

This summer
has been hot
but the mornings
are quite nice
as I have been
sitting outside
with a cup of tea
by the flowers
with the chair
placed strategically
on the bricks
and I think
"Oh, I get it...
life actually is good."

In the hanging kitchen, the smell-
cut cayenned sausage, ejective tomato slices
the whole thing in the back of the throat, inflamed.
Olive oil. Vinegar. Billie talks about her "girl
friend." She lives in Mayfair. (Almost pretty;
don't look too long.)

At times I feel sick.

American man he
strikes the figure of a half-God
broad-shouldered, burned
he does Not exist, John Henry
split his bust long ago and we
are huddled small boys imperfect
in the dust of his legacy.

Our fathers stood from dinner tables kissed
wives were kissed by children one last sip of old
wines and walked into the night looking
for burned-up lamps, the memories of mountains.
Ate stone. Drank mist.
(A thirst for adventure is close to your heart.)
Fell into the grit, the failure, fell
into everything.
(Little else has taste once the spice of life is on your tongue.)

I have nothing but my understanding.
I want to be swaddled, paralytically blind, shamelessly loved.
Or to go out in the wicker
world, there to find whatever our best
died looking for, tigers or ruins or
a life after adventure.

heart dormant
riding  
forest green
inspiring;
soul seeking
openings
in vain
searching
spaces hollow
ridden  disdain;
light fading
belief remains
wishing prevalent
keep on
discovering
well of tame
delight
dreaming
hoping
tomorrow invite
new  insight.