The Blind Pig

i don’t know what 
happens here at the 
arm of the great 
	barn door

the moment the day
breaks through itself
& the night capsizes
between two 
	watery thighs 
if the earth was made of salt 
we’d all be starving

little belly full of hay
sun breeze & a giant
mud stage with a tambourine 
& six or so dozen feet
dipping their dancing shoes 
at the well, 
	bottomless 
whiskey top hats & the glimmer 
of a gold chain squeezed 
between two impatient breasts
to whom we answer when we
no longer answer to ourselves

the sum of our accomplishments 
can be measured in milk cartons 
while our souls labor under the weight 
of the human questions like a bunch of 
mad boys flying at the sun
	one at a time
	two at a time
	three & four & five 
		at a time

blind pigs 
mud angels 
broken halos
	all

the fingers on the tambourine refuse
to quit & two sweaty girls 
kiss with open mouths
the men do not sleep
to savor themselves

in a world obsessed with answers
the truth is revealed in our 
greatest moments of abandon
it is nothing, they say, the squeeze of
our eyelids & a shudder inimitable you

		{we were never glam 
		just bumble-eyed & 
		frightened of ourselves}

the only thing i ever seek 
to change is my perception
all else is impossible

& the band plays on long after 
the curtain has fallen
& the last whiskey rimmed 
glass shatters the floor

allow yourself the freedom 
to dig for a dream
& clutter the mine 
	with diamonds

A Comment…

I have been feeling a little “stuck” with regard to my poetry lately. Indeed, there are times when I sit down to write and feel as if I am imitating myself, forcing myself into certain paradigms and styles. This morning, as I prepared to write, I sought to do little more than create a true stream-of-consciousness, as this feels like a “pure” form for me–a return to basics and a means of “unsticking” myself, if you will. But I found that, as I wrote, my mind kept returning to the image above, a painting called “The Blind Pig” that my friend, the wonderfully talented artist, T. Blake, sent me a few days ago, and that was originally inspired by the poem, Speakeasy. So, I used the image as a source of inspiration to create my own version of “The Blind Pig,” a bit of a stylistic departure for me…and one that felt very, very good.

12 thoughts on “The Blind Pig

  1. I love it! “the sum of our accomplishments can be measured in milk cartons” . Perfect! The word, “perception” also jumped out at me, as I am writing another short story that includes that word in the title. More to come regarding that one later. Currently, I am seated at a table in a little place called, “Kitchen 99”, and visions are dancing in my head…light beautiful visions that remind me of the Sorrentine Peninsula. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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