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