Tuesday, November 22, 2011

THE CUTTING FLOOR



 

The bugle sounds to crash of limb and fast
hoof snorts with wary eye after these lost hunted
minutes run panting before the hounds
with one last darkened breath.

In-between seconds fall prey, framed then snipped,
knotted tight into strings barely thought.
Uncured without mumbling their quick-pruned fate they wordless
lay waiting for the cut and fade to black.


This lot hangs gamey fast on kitchen hooks.
But will not last the night, fast rot this Cadaver
gathered of skipped and fleeting unborn moments
Deemed unworthy of my tarried,lingered browse.


I gnaw these pendulate bones of time, numbers trapped
in my escapement. The same why's and how's and when
I gladly overstep the b-side and also-ran.
Those irritating seconds of sand between my toes 
daily preened to the quick.

On to the meat, the muscle and
the marrowed bone, the savor my mouth is set for.
Nair will this growing sinewed basin of nail scratched
flesh ever shadow my memories.

 Trawled with careful nets I hurried seine my catch. Schools
of seconds amid each passing sun, sentenced
to the bottom muck spilt from times loose pocket seams, falling
down. Unspent minutes never ticking into my spaded grave
Laughing pangs me futile as the merciless gleaner
sups, for these missing bits bland all that fills my plate
I wish for those salty absent grains of the slower pace.


11.22.2011

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