Poem in progress(?)

A work, as of yet without a title, that may or may not be finished.



I sing a shallow selfsong of the man
The man of twists and turns
The mind that cantered through a dozen different successes
And decided that none was adequate.
The man whose head held him high
The man whose eyes walked up the carpeted walls of a nearly-there house
And hung above in stasis, comfortably hesitant
With umber cataracts of streetlight screenburn.

Somewhere inside, upstairs, and beyond, a door let itself open
Inviting in the bad dreams and movie scenes
Of too many late nights and white noise.

Walking up the walls further still
The stairs slide away into crowds of darkened laughter
And I light a flame just to cast a shadow.
In the melee below, they’re shouting.
Loud and voice-proud, they’re shouting loudest
They’re thrusting in leaps and bounds, and coming on far faster
Than I’d expected. Than I’d hoped.

I fall out into the hall
With blue thunder running down my face
And a melancholy mistaken for indifference
Like an empty can crushed underfoot
Like a liberated gaze longing for capture
Like cigarettes between lips, or
An asymmetrical pair of hands on hips
Falling through the floor.

Shining a violent green,
Risen above like a jealous totem
With many masks smiling and laughing and raging in fury
Talking of anger, money, sex, and the French
Walking on stolen paths in commandeered shoes
And still the transcendent blue eyes climbing to the ceiling
Refusing to be laid to rest.
If this all evolves into catastrophe then that’s probably for the best

You said
“This isn’t some kind of fucking odyssey”
And you took your coat and left.