All the ice melted
leaving dark snowmen every forty feet
And all their plastic bones are exposed.

All the glass open
every screen up
But the radiator’s set to a hundred and four.
How did we go from the frozen circle of Lucifer
and plunge into another myth, oh a lake of fire?

I remember throwing you into a pool
at only two or three with no kiddie wings
to save your life.

You would surface. Smiles.
And take to the water
like men take to streets when hope arises.

All the glass shattered
leaving stark dents in every coat of paint
And all your plastic hopes were exposed

All my time moping over
every dream’s cusp
while you’re staying later – why’d I bet you a hundred and four
that now when you hope it’ll glow until it’s a purple love, what are truces for?
Now I’m sponging up my sins, will the breaking tire?

I remember knowing you before your school days
at only two or three, why won’t you grow wings
to save your life?

All our past hoping
every string cut
I than you ain’t greater – two marionettes slumped on the floor
We both thought better for you if I stay, but better for me if I go

And I keep staying while you left me, you left me, you left me
you left me, you left me, you left me
with all these plastic homes
all these plastic folks
with all of these plastic homes
and all of these plastic folks
all of your plastic homes
and all of you plastic folks exposed

He remembers towing you down from the noose
you choked for two or three minutes, why don’t you have wings
to save your life?

How did we go from the frozen circle of Lucifer?
And plunge into a another myth of refining fire?
I hope you will surface smiles
and take to air currents
like women will conceive when hope arises

All the ice melted
winter is over, Aslan’s on the move
And all our plastic bones are exposed.

---

 

:: about the 54 poems written at 27 ::

After much deliberation, I decided to keep the whole tradition of doubling my age and writing that many poems in a year. You’ll notice that April Thirtyish has already passed, so I’m late in posting. I’ve gotten about half of them written and will begin posting this week.

I started this whole mess with 46 poems written at 23, most of which are still up on the site and many of which are awful. Those poems I wrote because I read somewhere that the best age for poetry is 23. I was turning 24 and had an existential crisis.

Then I got over it.

Suddenly I was 25 and thought, “Why not do it again?” So I doubled my age and wrote 50 poems at 25. Again, most of these are still on the site and I’m proud of one or two of them.

Now I’m twenty-eight and it’s almost a principle, almost an undeniable fact of life. When the wild Lancelot is in his native habitat and his age is in an odd year, he will be secreting poetry. I do this because poetry is important, because we must take an active role in the creation of new language or else our language dies.

That means I must write, I must learn how to create better poems even if I’m awful at it — everyone must because the fate of our culture’s at stake. For me, this year, that’s 54 poems at 27.

So I’ll schedule these suckers out and give it a go. Follow along with the category 54 @ 27.

 

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