Wednesday, October 10, 2012

inner loitering

no stance is taken,
as the dreamer hacks away,
carving and hammering,
hammering and carving,
while the city presses down,
presses the stress down,
arrogantly defining the intonation,
but still, 
the dreamer's work,
the struggle-in-itself-for-itself,
a relative of the authentic "free" type of freedom,
a bit more bottled,
but it's good,
it's real,
and scraped,
like the hands of a craftsperson,
it's rugged and rusty,
blistered eloquence,
splintered excellence,
it's glory contained between concrete lines.




















4 comments:

Old Ollie said...

your last three lines are killer

Square Corner said...

We got a Whitman poem going here, with the voices of the streets. I guess there's a large dose of Bukowski thrown in for good measure. Nice job.

Juice Box said...

Thereare some really golden lines here HP. You inspire me; I'll be a writer like you one day.

Fisheye Lens said...

Nice one.

Here at the Electric Stonehall ...

still splinterin', still dreamin'