Trying something different here, a little exercise in making the mess intentional. My usual style is to follow a pattern. Here, I try to go against the pattern, while making other patterns. Just playing around. Could make an interesting song w/ this one. A little secret for you. I think it has a little intentional emotion and power to it. <3, C.A.
The Market
Oxygen, devotion, desire, and spare change
return to those who wait. I am
god, and you are god, and this is god,
and so is the snake.
Confused tycoons
are fasting. Beneath them –
countless park bears
buried in camp-site scraps.
In between, together, come evening,
smart, patient wolves
chew on bone.
By noon, the nonprofit is no more
than a dried-up tit,
and all of my income
is buried in shit.
Little, dark dream circles
under my eyes.
Last night, you
had silver, sharp canines. When we
kissed, I tasted metal. No matter, no
mind.
Call me an illusion scavenger.
I love even the well, and the wait,
and the hell.
Following, I am no more
than an air-sucking parachute
fish-tailing on the drag strip.
For years,
I’ve taken the bait.
Sometimes, my ring
fingers freeze, knuckles locked stuck,
closed from the trigger grip.
With time,
movement tears apart
the tricky numb,
and suddenly, fist to heart,
you return.
Up ahead, the crowd breaks,
revealing
the Market. Yes, I make a muscle,
but can I pay with food stamps.
Now,
my blanket is damp, and I peel open
the bad eye.
Today, again – ridges,
cheap sheets, yellow,
and I’m ashamed
of the bruised peaches.
No lip, no skin,
no squinting eye, no smirk
beside me.
Empty bleachers. See, I am god,
and you are god, and this
is god, and the snake
is god, and so is the penniless
or high-class date.
People tell me that my hair is pretty.
The voices should be more
sing-song. People tell me
that my hair
is pretty. Like
always,
I stand
like a rock.
C.A. MacConnell
