A train by life station
I was born, but not before you ordered it. I was called there,
where we are called people and are committed to one step family,
not between or filled. I thought I was a chair,
a publication in a country preschool. You generally go,
but not without a strong wince with red peppers, pitchers.
My reports were intrguing, but you said people are more
intuitive on the subject of images, and my country was
never one with the well or the prospects of raising my fortune.
So, here is an image:
Far below, I was guilty of what might be
called the upper section of my life, and I feel the best
when we all recap the ends of the upper parts of everything.
People (all other people) beat it back into record because
they didn’t like the middle of the two extremes.
And what’s not battered by a calamity
of all shared between the upper and lower parts?
To be built is to submit all that becomes subject to some.
You buy your mind because you are an extravagance.
I don’t like to consider this, since I am on virtue and all.
At the center: moderation. After finding older pleasures,
silently and smoothly, there was comfort and leaders.
I don’t like the period in the body of rest, but easy circumstances
are more sensible when pressed earnestly in the most efficient manner.
I reciperocate by stopping the miseries which nature offers,
the station of life I was born into without being assessed.
I will go away to keep from going or going into the city where
he was killed. The city would not seek to report back to me
of my biggest goal’s progress, would not let me record or reflect
on recovery. This is a human course between the west coast light
on the “I’m sorry” drawn down face.
My brother was killed with treatment, was assisted into heaven
by a bookkeeper, but couldn’t have been otherwise in the court
of my father’s desire, a never ending last book dream. In a few weeks,
we’ll lose white wheat in the first week of the recollection of what I am.
We’re pleased by alternate routes, entirely back on scenes,
on worlds that I should try to win. So I force myself to go,
returning my eye to jitters. I, just like my master, was
a sick motherly recession with a sick fearful obsession.
This poem originally appeared in The Grave of the Great Alley of Clarity Cats, an anthology of poetry written by Mike Giardina. The complete the anthology is available below:
Table of contents:
- Sun Shine Body
- On arrival in a lot of no civilization and plenty of letters,
- The unable to deliver
- An upwards slanted walk
- A familiar voice
- Those who have a standard way of going
- Left each chapter within us
- Warm smile not found in her cigarette
- To regain his composure for figures
- Food for rejecting his feet
- Even during--even if it during
- Lying on the floor, stretched after stir
- A soldier frames the wall
- A step by boulder
- A train by life station
- I was able to take the old north of town
- Bradbury's closet
- A mummy's leggings
- Sipping mother's sweat
- Flash like an individual there
- I realize the skyline while playing catch with mother's death
- Running far away from a city, to return a week later
- Carried the clock over
- We have been meeting years
- Chocolate Italian princess
- Champion of Years
- "How much longer will I be able to remount the mothproof thrusting..."
- Over as rivers are over