Saturday, February 18, 2017

Stolen Matches

Stolen Matches

Existence is not for the weak. Consciousness
moves like a river beneath sheet ice. I make
going to the grocery store an event. Every meal
when you are single is a sad banquet. So what
if we are incisors, daydreams. Hey Muse, hit me up.
Let’s go dancing. The lyric makes its little noise,
something like, out of the darkling sky come
the white stars, little frozen glyphs, or Valkyries
burning in separate Valhallas. No more hand-me-downs. 
I have nothing up my sleeves except nerves
forming a small city with dirty cabs. I don’t
want to learn the patter, the schtick, of one word
against another. I want the feast. The offal
I leave on a silver dish for the Gods who are
starving this time of year. What goes around
comes around. Begin where you have never been.
Choose wisely amongst the coloured rags. Memorize
traumas. The after-life is a recital. Hello loss.
Hello exaltation. Have I made you smile yet?
Know this poem is a forgery. I traced it by hand
in elegant calligraphic script. Like a dry drunk,
I want more and more of what I cannot have.
Emotions disfigure perception. Open all the doors.
What is the difference? Heave-ho the familiar
and see what takes its place. The scope is cavernous
so take a good flash-light. I follow my thoughts
into a gully where they are playing with stolen matches.
Isn’t that always the case? Put away the play-doh
when you are done. The school closed down years ago.
Clean up the art tables. I'll lock up after you.

By Chris Banks

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