Wednesday, June 24, 2009

My Boston Stapler #2

My rail is empty, empty, empty,

a void in the pit of me, hollowed out,

cored like a cooking apple.

A silo without a missile.

A chamber without a cartridge.

A cannon without a circus clown.

I cannot fulfill my purpose, purpose, purpose,

the only function I am true for, made for.

Like a retired steel worker I stand

on the ground, shoulders eroded,

squinting up at the unfinished skyscraper.

He and I need work to be. He. Me.

I burn to be of use, use, use,

to bite the wind with steel incisors,

to pincer like a horseman with iron thighs,

to stamp, fold and mutilate. Volumes.

To embrace the neat typed innocent pages

like an editor, sanguine stylus poised.

I want you to fill me, fill me, fill me

up to the gills where I breathe the air of action.

Feed me the blind rapture of accomplishment,

twine your pulsing fingers round me and squeeze!

Lift me high and use me hard. Oh, yes!

I am ready. Take me. Make me. Stake me.

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