Thanksgiving Day

In one breath, I'm afraid,
performing daring tricks
in the light of beauty.
Whom do I respect?
I'm not yet worthy of death.
Should love cast out fear?
The plunge may be my only savior.

These tasks, questions,
undeniable rituals, flow
forth from the source
of my weariness.
I find things only barren,
a thought that gnaws
like the persistence of vermin.

I know where nothing lies,
to know nothing,
only the claws that scrape
against screens, the barren crags
in poems and movies.
Nothing is immobile, cast in solid
rock, no movement, black night…

There is a stream
in which poetry exists.
I do not rest secure on its
wings of nobility. but I
know its worth. I cast
my own sluice, and deeply
drink these now torpid waters.

For a moment, my mind seems un-stifled,
my shivering hands unclench the rail,
my heart opens an inch more,
emulating the rush, praying to
coexist, shuffling to mingle
with the channel, wishing to be
deepened and fulfilled.

Do not fear the blood,
Drink deep, it's just a taste.
Let the foolish know their
hope is worthy, like there
is any other hope. It
is a source not mistaken
for shadows. This life is
worth remembering.

I do not want to die
between the cracks.
I do not want to forget
my cheated birth.
I must write on their walls, detesting lies,
thread myself through, wishing for mercy,
entering refined unborn beauty.

I am afraid.
Are the cliffs too much?
I fear my heart's burst,
screaming in anguish
at a mountain. To relish
failure is worse, however,
I must know your bottom.

Descend without brakes,
risking sleep in the gutter,
drinking from the goat's 40 oz,
hoping for a soul unit of triumph,
caressing a patched mosaic, singing,
dancing along to music awakened from
the dead, remorseless, shameless.