Wednesday, April 18, 2012

"scuttle" by brad hamers

leaving this place
if i make it out alive

we made maps of our broken hearts
and crossed gods like straight shots of highway
back and forth until the rope burn caught fire
with the battered bush until the butter (& sacrament) makes its way back around (we made wounds for our salt, passed out in the pepper)
we made truck stop of our weight, heavy cravings and soft-soap (coaxable avidity, prayable appetite)
we made barrels and canoes of our capsized cruise ships, tug-boats and blow-up-rafts for all the debris that we would leave behind
i left like a bomb , always did
parts of me never to be sewn back on
we made pins of ours dreams, (near-space)balloons of our egos
and followed them
(would you jump off a bridge or waterfall because your friends were)
off the end of an unended map, we made rations of our empty hearts and passed out, abundant and pregnant in the pile left to divvy up (,while passing the potatoes, while passing out loaded)
we made x marks over the parts of ourselves left to auction up
(the whip slowly pronounces god) straight lines of small talk huddle to keep heavy (stay overcast or keep raining), part of me weighs in as the rain cloud i came in with
we made looped medical tape, drums breaks and tribal marks of the bruises from the chain
smoking on each other’s frenzy, i’ll pull on your amusement and you drag my corpse back on carriage, by way of animal like an ol fashioned past-time
good in the head
made sharp and stuck bleeding to hold up the other end of the map
we made highway of our naivety, our anxiety, game-trails and tree trunk
bartered with our ambition, (pirates in our own waves) whale sucking the bottom of trade-ships to replace the plankton ,(Dolichorhynchops)
manatee in the room, this emotion of hers was this close to being extinct
eating antiques from the trash
on the plank, sword in its back, under the microscope, preparing the sample, highways were our new game-trails, where we got lost most in the woulds
and would go back
to find others
jet-engine in the truck, made pinwheels for the gossip, held up my ripped-off sign, made it there through mud
made hut around the fire in my belly
fed dead ideas, prophets on minimum wage, extinct medicine men and out-of-print appreciation, also watered down reactions, stuttering in your needs and (snap backs)responses
and helped a few of them read letters
back to home
contact paper, cover ur head like textbook, continuous home, looped memoir, carriage wheel and readable brand, nod to your label like a black eye and infamy, like quality product that will go out with an encore
bang the steering until the ideas see green
sleep your way up the future by dreaming up the latter
cleats in the suture, all dirt dancing on the edge of a wound
couldn’t climb free(dom) of dumb or the mountain, its way out of longing to give oneself up
to one another, to the afflicted condition, and no conviction, the carriage pulls a screen, the scream pulls up blood, the root reaches seed, hits the conceit like a cracked egg losing inkling, all corn saluting kernel, all suspicion with a spark, parking in the nucleus, no Standing signs and block the box fines,
we made ancient maps of our hard earned feelings and coastline of our climax like disaster
she came like a split in half ship (a hand radio lost its juice) , her cracks let out every floor at once, every passenger left in her, the same, whether dishwasher or captain, high chief or behind a color camera, like a feather from a shot bird, falls the same from a roof with no resistance as a mortar, with no resistance, if the common air was worth our five sense, (passed down) nicked off the picked off target like candy apple, props on our head, heavy as a bowling ball, falls like pins from the map, at the same speed as her anger, we caught up in thin air, at 3 cents a bite, both dropping at the same pitch, tee-pee off a cliff, no resistance, what if we pulled this rug, pull your air out, cat without a bag and all, one heavier head tied to a thousand weightless bodies, will we all fall and / or land the same
we made maps of our predictions
beaker glass of our weigh(way) to duck behind time, break deep and sink in it
will we make enough wake to remember the propeller
will leaving behind pop cans and plastic bags be enough to take, all the see, worth carrying, away with us, will the six-pack around our dinner’s neck sport support like sun beams, will the leaving hit (bottom or)the horizon when eye wrap my light around it, we shared a hundred watt head, let every moth smack it across its jaw
we made maps of the black and blue
built ships in the hurt
we made broken hearts to leave in
like debris left floating in the
dinner we know we need to eat
tomorrow floated by like hollowed out logs
like parts of the wreck to make raft of
we made breaking
like old twigs
for new fire
like overwhelmed hands
with decks pointing upward
ships sent out to make map
the lines
i draw out
and follow
for leaving

title: scuttle (submarine: anchor that pulled us apart ) take a long hard look at your pen

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