Thursday, November 10, 2016

I don't know what year
but somewhere out there
on the road
I became a ghost
in a decomposing body
that listens too often
at the intersection
of perpendicular 
and time
travelling somewhere
my feet can't be
fractured between 
the here
and there
my heart missing in action
even I can't find
marking time
dancing with the pretty
and the light 
far beyond the fingers reach
and all I have left
to get me by
are the stories 
that make a person's 
lost child cry
with neglect 
of their own humanity
and my need to see the ones
whose hearts have not deserted
like partisans gone 
in the middle of the night
and never coming home
still young and far too old
the way fascism
forges the poets into tribe
the dimensions cannot contain
with feet on the ground
and fists in the air
rotting around their spirits who cry:
we only wanted to love
what the fuck 
are we all doing

Strange that this should come a few hours before I heard of Cohen's ascension. After I read it back I had The Partisan stuck in my head. Was the song in my head when I read the news. 

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