Saturday, January 16, 2010

boiling blood


boiling blood sprays from the lips of the twisted,
the fractured,
the disenfranchised,
like an old man reaching out,
into the night,
trying to hold the wind,
he once knew the same goals,
had the same dreams,
as I,
but lost the mystery,
by getting lost in the mystery,
the hard mystery,
with a quivering voice,
a trembling cane,
no longer blinded by vanity,
he knows now like before he ever "knew,"
this hard mystery,
with it's rain on the windows,
with it's blood in the veins,
with it's fire in the sky,
with it's wind in the lungs,
when they tell you,
you don't know anything,
you tell 'em,
"I know enough."
but you say that last line like Deniro.

2 comments:

Square Corner said...

Dox, this is publishable. I swear. Find some poetry mag and send it off. Really fine stuff.

Old Ollie said...

I can picture French, and Bruce Fish reading this poem by the fire light.

Sweaty is in the corner laughing and laughing, as he tips his beer.