mark hartenbach
mark hartenbach is a poet, writer, musician & publisher
based in east liverpool, ohio. you can check out his chapbook
appalachian koans, among other publications, by writing to non
compos mentis press, 240 thompson ave., east liverpool, ohio
43920. markhart@webtv.net
a meditation on the last words of lew welch
my rock wobbles precariously
as i stand clutching
my latest batch of prayers
to the patron saint of a lost cause
that will never be found
& wondering if i've squandered
my moment in the sun
if its all better off lost
to give future travelers
on the path
something to strive for
i'm wondering how many times
i've mistaken a shadow of a doubt
for a ghost
if i'm caught up
in an historic occasion
as if it really matters
who once lived
or died here
i wonder
if maybe
i've been crawling southwest
all this time
& didn't realize it
a soundtrack for the dead & dying
a soundtrack for the dead & dying
takes a dramatic swing
which no one sees coming
not a clean, even break
more a clear-cut familiarity
with no recollection of specifics
a place where words
can't
go
nothing definitive
as the ego would have us believe
only the most recent take
not something we missed
the first time around
or sequel that surpasses the original
more a quick glance at the last line
with a grimace
as if its painful to look on
often our uncertainties
are our saving grace
not as in blissful ignorance
but in not letting associations
that we tote along
dictate our perceptions
to not feel the need
to nudge
every image
toward the limelight
nor pull it back
toward the spirit
excommunication blues
the king of appalachia
is up on blocks again
though as many times
as he's been sold down the river
you would think
they'd leave his wheels on
maybe this mock crucifixion
is for the benefit
of those who think
they don't have far to fall
so the intimidation factor
needs to be raised
a notch or two
to get their attention
but all it makes me think of
is a broken music box
that plays only the first few bars
then cuts childhood short
or the way a dog tilts his head
in a bewildered way
that begs compassion
the theme to forty days & forty nights
the sound of crows at two in the morning
can be disconcerting, bring home
the feeling of lostness
i'd previously only suspected
a turning of time inside out
surrendering secrets without a fight
smearing logic across a dead man's souvenirs
an ascending arc
between a quarter moon
& two-bit town, over
any realm of possibility
a sign my prayers
will conquer that ten foot shadow
a tearing at the veil
of force-fed cautionary tales
a song that cuts
through the static & distortion
merciful blues
thousands of stars shining
in the night sky
but dead as many years
before we ever see them
should remind us
that even the heavens are temporary
but we can't be bothered
with numbers
on such a beautiful night
though we're broke
as the ten commandments
we think our credit
is still good
& will buy us
everything we need
the lambs are trembling
at the sound of a wolf whistle
but we think it's because
we've charmed the snake-eyed
into rearranging its spots
into a luckier configuration
we miss so much more
than we catch
this is called mercy
|
