Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Poem by Ian Engelberger

my mother and i used to drive between others' fingers,
when there were others, & it gave her the illusion of being caught up.
they didn't know and would run around capable of anything
truly untamed.
while observing the powerlines standing against the skin of others or my own i
would often consider the true fear of her
or become entirely unable to see/
there was only so much time & as the sun set in my head i was told to stop and
asked to stop, but didn't hear without my eyes,
& thought about the powers between graves, afraid.

her eyes were dead in the car.
that she was actually all the other boys & part of them at once drove me
to the hood of the car, wild.

often, to be back under the trees again,
i'd feel leaves and notice at the same time, standing up reflected in the lines that i saw,
that i see, were the tapes, recorded. which were,
and are, her,

& he jumped out the window while observed, sold amphetamines on the side, remembering
how they used to laugh how he was an animal & a thing to see
now it's there shining while at the same time cigarettes on the floor
but holes for our eyes smoke enveloping out of our mouths.

he was honest, even knew her name, falling all over his own arms & legs
running from almost every single day. thought beauty was dark & dirty
taking drugs for his memory.

and all day he laid about staring up at his fingers always managing
to smoke or stay in the water, watching tall buildings.

and no one cried, they just sat there and thought between the walls,

he worked at the battery factory,
now he comes out of their mouths
corrupted and unclear.

[in progress]

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