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Static for a Lonely Island (I3 - I4)

Time elapses all too fast,
but it might as well not pass
at all.
My dear compass
will remain aghast in space;
its illuminated cityscape
is a mesmerizing toxin.
My inner filaments wane,
obscurity annihilates all introspection.
I have no choice but to accelerate my pace,
in defiance of all reason.
I keep to this perimeter,
this bright and whitened pavement.
I dare not walk on city streets,
I tread the kind periphery
once neighbor to open-air markets.
Optimism refines my senses,
the smell of produce leads my stomach-
now the epicenter
of cognitive processes-
to the tidiest marketplace,
clad in red and white striped drapes
shielding rotten vegetables and fruits
from the freshest moonlight.
I walk from stand to stand
hoping to find some kind
of edible life.
I pace to the sidewalk,
around I turn and see
a batch of moonlit tangerines.
Blessed gapes in drapes
can bring life to dead fruits
and thus fruits
to the life that is me.
A cheerful gait brings tangerines to my hands
much quicker
and thumbnails bring tangerines to my mouth
bare and sweet.
I thank you,
scrumptious tangerines;
sight, tact, taste and smell
are one.
You tweak, refine, augment
and bring to me divine audition;
whispers are hearty guffaws
and footsteps, wailing sirens.
One, two, three tangerines
and their torn skins on the floor-
looking in my mother’s eyes-
my reflection,
a salient tangerine
held between my hands.
Possessed by sneezes and sniffles,
she said she’d be all right,
she told me any citrus fruit
would heal her soul just fine.
I used to sell lemonade
for only half a dollar,
and for quarter on hot days.
I used to drench my earnings
in a dream.
Without fail, I’d bring her tangerines
the days she’d look most frail.
I used to be young,
unaware that lemons
are also citrus fruits…
I remember you,
decrepit woman,
made of twigs
and leaves of grass.
I remember sirens-
and a tangerine,
a thud,
beside my feet.
I hear steps,
a madman’s cackling,
a killer’s straggling industry:
crackling grass,
crackling street,
crackling twigs and leaves.
About face!
The wraiths are quick to assimilate
this dire situation
and brings this Demon’s fervent charge
to pure humiliation.
My sugary thumbs
were quick to lunge
through this Demon’s tainted eyes ,
my racing heart,
quick to surmise
the shame my iron thumbs impart
upon no one
but myself.
And oh!
For you I did not have to wait long,
blistering scream,
foul volition,
vile initiative of beasts,
thumbs possessed
by lunacy-
how I hate you!
Sweet and bloodied thumbs,
who were you,
to do away with sanity?
And what of me?
What life responsible for death
is worthy of continuation?
What lunacy shall bring to me
the fruits of sound redemption?
Not you, black tangerines,
you are sweet but not sound
and I must find it loud
on the run,
through these unfurnished streets.

22 Mar 07

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(6 more poems by this author)

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