Wakening —four poems


Like wound springs we wait inside a medic’s room
my dearest friend and lover sits upon the table

we do the ritual things we do

we laugh against doom
like David with his stone
we do the tiny things we’re able


Some days I think
lies would serve us best
but this is just delusion

How could I choose
to twist what’s real
with the wrench of my imagination,
isn’t that the definition of a fool?

Whatever it is it’s here
so deal with it
The surgeon said sorry
about the biopsy


Without you would be the
Cardelaveo Abyss

which is no place I know
or which even exists
unless by coincidence

because I just made it up
to convey the vast emptiness
I would know without you

–on being up in a 2 a.m. funk

What I was doing up
was being down
not in a dreadful sense
but in the way of anyone
suddenly too tuned to everyday events
once hidden in convenient clouds
but now laid bare
as an avacado pit
exposed in half a fruit
staring at the heart if it
and first time seeing it
from head to boot

Jim Culleny; December 2007-January 2007


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