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awakening into this

Awakening into this,
the body's bliss
fine-tuning the vibration
into early-morning's baby-breath....

Damn, Sam! It's so freakin' cold, stepping
barefoot into the air, down-comforter warm.
Our bodies still sleeping in its natural heat
did not know what happened to the furnace,
why it died overnight.

And now mental cruelty steps in and takes over
like the despot it is.
I have to think of people living on Cleveland's streets.
I have to think of hunger and the ever-present sickness
of poverty: the crisis of the pecking order of those
who don't matter in the game of numbers and the bottom
line between business and business-as-usual when nothing
blurs the avalanche hidden on the mountain and no one knows
what will happen next. Even though we get strange inklings
now and then.

Karma unfolds itself day by day by day,
like strangers meeting, from first glance to
happy or unhappy endings.
Exactly what is it that wakes us?
And what puts us to sleep as if the origin of
the eleventh commandment could
insulate us from the code-blue of truth.

(In the sinking boat of palliative care, who
do we throw over to feed the sharks circling
with human intention?)

My hands are cold but I'm not yet hungry though
I feel my own mask smothering someone I do not know.

I own only that.

Editing stage: 

Comments

I remember
two buck charley
the tan man
stinking jesus
and the glue girl

i remember the sytrofoam pure
container with its sandwhich
and soup
sitting beneath the old marquee
filling up on sun heat
feeling beat

the dog days breath settling
deep in lung damp news
and the blisters from the dead
mans shoes

I love it when a poet comes
from the blue with a new poem
a new take
a new voice

amazing yet again Kali
the harsh settlement
sensory roam of it

and Im eating my meal
from the sparce fridge
hamburg and pasta
drinking food bank tea

and watching the rain
fall in the silent parking
lot like tears of a memory
Ive sold to get here

Thank You

Thank you precious poet!

Deep into it, we are one and the same.

~A

author comment

I suspect you would even approve of the reasons why. Since I am essentially unable to be critical about your form, I am therefore consigned to discussing your poetry from a purely "emotional" perspective. That is difficult for me as it tends to bare as much of the commentator as the poet.
I suppose it could be argued that if the poet is able to engender an emotion, regardless of its nature, it may be taken as an indication that the poem is successful.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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