UNDER THIS PASSION

By Brian Morrisey

There are wicked ways
I want to forget
how the lonesome
cowboy wins his battles
even if it is a memory
stuck in the insanity
of a bullet about to backfire

calm winter nights
too chiseled to walk lightly
too desperately quiet
to roam when not
in the spirit

Under this passion
there are street lights
painted black
to find your way
down a lost road
to a beautiful mind
drunk in the corridors
of boredom
singing show tunes
reality scenic
previews into a hell burning
HDTV in surround sound

Under this passion
I sit behind a desk
look out a window of opportunity
sink my nails
into a deep scratch
against a wall
inside this box
of indiscretion
mocking a corporate America
spitting at the seams
spilling lies
and watered-down truth
the same consistency
of blood

Under this passion
I tell a joke to a silent audience
with voice so deep
it buries the sun
that shone down
all the little fears
dressed as daydream police
arresting images
of the Buddha
hand carried through the
trenches of lost time

Under this passion
I summon the poem
to a biased jury
discretely disguised
as the poet themselves
who might applaud
late one-night stands
with the word
seduced off one-way streets
expressway to madness
driving 100 miles an hour
and never looking back

Comments (1) Dec 08 2009