One Hundred and Fifty-First Entry

I've been staying up very late lately. Who knows why? This poem is part of my Fit to Print series. I bought a new totally manual typewriter, and it's inspiring me to write, mostly fiction, but this poem as well. Peace and hair-grease.

Here's my poem:

URGED AT NIGHT COUNCILS

No effort, and we wander.
Our first instinct is to bend like thin fronds
towards the computer, but I don't. Pennsylvania
clinched it. Let words slip down the grease-slick stairs
of our cities. The cloth has been lifted,
and the dust will land on our shelves
like a form of snow never recognized.

I could take the branch in my mouth,
chewing the bark until it and my teeth gave way.
Later the break in weather came, the redness
as multiple scarves were left, their tartans
fading in the halls of the community space.
No work for the week, the delegates eager
to leave to the hills, their altars
buried under their skin and suits.
The office itself takes on a haunted glow,
the manager predicts harmony among tribes,
but his seeing bones were raw, fresh
from the sockets, winter surprises like a sudden door.


My bones are in excellent condition; they glimmer
inside me and shine out upon reflection with the moon.
What is your building like, when you're not there
to turn the lights on? What is being worshiped
by the steel? I don't care too much about the answer,
it's the asking that indicates direction. Which is always up.