June 10 by The Running Son
If there was a dress rehearsal
I don’t remember. My never ending questions
caused a reversal
of true growth to bending weathered bones
to avoid old nodes, never mending.
So the story goes. Then, I went
the path my parents chose, crying that
poems wont reject rocks thrown.
Now I send poems out like stones, eying
any who first cry out, or groan.
RunningSon, fone home! Your Father’s
gone silent, out like a pilot. His eyelet’s
too small to thread in and lately
he’s been bed-in and shut us out.
Crowded House now, and no place
to board a mouse comfortably,
much less me, the least likely
suspect to face this, first draft,
no flash cards or bath breaks, kissing
straight on the mouth
the death of a thousand resentments.
I rely on those. Need them, minus
a run-through, to expose the me you see
imposing myself, and my poetry,
on reality without rehearsal, or needed editing..
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.