You cannot polish a heart,
there is no tarnish remover for sale
once,
a thought exists,
then always, extant
once a feeling felt,
there is no erasure,
no white out,
just another wear and tear
to thy fabric added
it enters and infects,
no surgery can excise,
chemo and radiation
leave scars
and remainders
certain sadnesses are unreadable,
even if counterbalancing weights worn,
we are the sum
and the summation,
we are the holy ghost
of everything
we have ever known,
even if we did not
father it
a storage facility,
you rent permanently,
for the "stuff"
you don't want
but can't discard,
pay dearly for that inability
the poetry,
an artifice,
a cheaply hired psychologist,
a rented imaginary friend,
from whom there are no secrets kept
I am not delusional
or deluded
there is a new tiredness in me
that I did not ask for
and sorry to have met
now a parcel I must carry
like the delicious awful testing images
of one's own end.
there was a joy here for me once,
a day and way
of atonement in my
writing and reading
and though it is 400am
and here I am
writing again,
I surely expect
the music genie
to play for me
"the thrill is gone"
any second,
for it surely is....
once upon a time,
in that chair,
could easy poem
and easy write
but the thrill is gone,
the love "of it"
upped and disappeared
the weave and the woof
"of it"
not the same
cannot get that tarnish removed,
the commemorative wall plate visible crack'd
though reglued,
the cracks are
mirrored images reminders
of what I feel I have lost,
and what is sadly indeed,
just a commemorative now
full in a heavy way,
self-absorption ended, really,
my paper towel self
a soaked ragged mess,
the more it wipes,
the more it spills...
a fullness that comes
from human hate
a sidebar loud, all overhear,
in the courtroom of
humans racing
"to excel,"
they misunderstand,
as they just finger point
to their own chest blasting,
look I got into harvard,
made a million,
but I am still a major *******
in a grand tradition
this stuff has ashen pilloried me,
everywhere in my
not so red anymore blood
I am not delusional
or deluded,
or even depressed,
just weary,
tarnished,
and
writing this does, releases nothing,
changes nothing, makes, improves nothing
the stitch in my side still there,
saying poetry, nice but who cares,
what once was fair and comely,
now just ordinary fare, unlovely
a McDonalds of common words
once the poetry of hate is writ,
it cannot be deleted,
a curse upon all
that abused this child so,
your promotional coupons
are discarded
with today's newspapers
and tomorrow and even today!
no one will care
about this or the
mismeasurement markers of no glory
or of hate, or the
pseudo popularity you create
or relish into thinking of yourself,
as valuable
tell me I am wrong,
tell me of New Year's Day
start overs,
will be grateful
for your trying,
your counterbalancing attempts,
if genuine, are
truly glorious
even if the thrill is all gone,
your trying to untarnish me,
well, every little bit helps
at the very least
gets me sets me,
down more evenly,
untilltng the lean of what ails,
ever so less
but the tilt,
the tarnish,
is immeasurable like divinity
here is where,
I leave it and
the fast approaching sabbath,
depending where on your calendar
it resides,
can be both a weekly ending
and/or a beginning,
but a sabbath rest from the garbage of words,
by humans abused,
un blessings saying I am better than you
so, a place, a time to start,
to polish over just a tad, the stains
of what cannot ever be deleted,
cleansed
even if it is pseudo-gone from the internet
