Sold Out

Sold Out

3-22-2011

The models they ended making,
For he had sold himself out

His actions had been repeating
The critical couldn’t mind and wouldn’t-

Stop saying sorry when you fault
Graceless as you are, it is beauty to watch

Hopeful eyes and puppy dog paws
Pressing, trembling after talk raw

“We won’t end up like that, will we”
-I must refuse, for all is black and white-

Patterns I may see dear
But the future shan’t be stark

And even though the way is dark
Its roads I have walked before

The whispers on either bush grimace
Delighting hellishly at his bewilderment

That I wandered, Antigone counter-part
Brushed the fells of hell and smiled

Was more precious than a touch
Was more delightful than too much

James P. McCabe

He was a writer

He was a writer
3-15-2011

he was a writer until blood appeared
smocked in fresh sweat and salt
pour me down the drain
pour me into the rain
 
let me seep into the soil
frigid pasture, or dream catcher?
lots of matter taking pointillist capture
to dot a planner with feverish mind’s clatter

these hands have soiled through the years
(spittle, great rapture)
dodge confrontations or head in the (c)loud(s)~
here I go for the to and fro,
swindle with cylinder and take a break
from your lovely life’s escape turned ember
-
o goodness, where have they gone?
Were they inside of a
it would seem that they were trapped in his
seems as if his jacket had linings

or 'twer it to also include an indigenous savior
young, brill' e' the ant, could save all but not prop body
he was propositioned to have brains melt (or squished)
for tv's babble had cleft and dealt, hadn't missed although plain spelt 
o that we were less of a staring organism who’s benefit is drawn from schema, repetition enormity

James P. McCabe