The Wheelhouse | 003

what a curious vintage this
c a v e r n o u s
existence

how complicated the night within me is

(sleeping)

where are all the
do-ing words
are spun round inky fingers
perfectly punctuated by
hearts so full of  

mountain

they avalanche
when speaking truths like polished glass
reflecting why the sun goes
wishing upon falling planets
while laying upon some rock
dreaming a little ache
like desire
coughing angel dust and comets

who are we to ask what “whys” there are
in telling of the day
and all her shadows kissing hidden treasures in their own

(and glorious) ways

aren't we
(all of us)
the knowing
and the knowledge
and the glowing 

(and the apology)

waiting for the time and place
to state our glib confessions
to the dying priests of protocol and privilege

how chewed up
and chosen we've become
like whispers in a cloud of ruin or
nightshade in a glass of civil discourse 

this
(of course)
is how the wind makes wine of tragedy
and how our sovereign minds become the mash in some homogenized whiskey
void of character and old earth
in a land where

PATRIOTS
claim themselves as such

 in lieu of understanding
what forefathers meant
(instead)
content to take the agitprop as God’s own gospel
spreading that hallowed hymn like a star-spangled banner

who are we
to believe the personal political
and make politics so personal
that we wrap our fingers round humanity ‘til it turns bloodshot and blue-faced
g a p i n g
like a homeless noose waiting to carry the anthems home to Bedlam 

we are
(all of us)
a watchtower perched upon the hill
overlooking the vineyard of our own devastation
too blind to the forest fire for the smoke
and mistaking it all for a burning bush 

(like God
has any use for beacons smaller than apocalyptic)

and we wonder
why the holes in our chests
keep filling up with water

- by Ian R. Dougherty