To Steal the Wind by Frank Reardon

Reply.
The wind will not come your way until the hounds
of my heart have left into a whisper that the mind
will always be seeking, one that runs through the
gravestones of your soul, those empty places that
are as hard to see as a fight with collapsed distinction.

And to sound as if feet walked the earth in hard pounding
phrases of somebody else, the soul still loves and I
am the captain of my own inspiration that talks like slow
explorations of new memories, I'm not dead just yet, nor
do I plan the battle within against a rock that speaks the
names of the numerous tender.

To scamper like leaves against the hundred eyed church
while leaving bits and pieces of myself, here and there, a
scavenger hunt for wicked molecules of eternal questions,
leaving the empty rhetoric behind, the memorial to my life.
And it will be as if the sea flooded the music and the blood,
it will be a rush of wanted works, a fiddle that plays for that
after birth.

Quiet haunting will delay terror teeth and the wicked will
serve as the old me, I'm walking out of movies and placing
myself into the stream of the conscious real, while I send
you every bit of refection from yesterday and I will float into
madness and grab beauty from the revolution and anarchy
she's been sleeping in, old tombstone , new mystery.

Opening the ruthless paths with the perfect reaches of self
exploration, magnificent distances, widening gaps of the naked
self, it's the power struggle within the deserts of my mouth,
vast plains of devastating language and loud positions inside
the gutter life, am I not the real me? the marvelous me? the
proud and sexual being? For it is me, the laughter of dignity.

The soft and gorgeous, the lovely and charming, the dancers
and the impressionistic bloom like the babe spring, each moment
becoming more drastically important, to accept, to manipulate the
old factory of the fighting life, I've not given up on anything I've
once knew or did, I'm just evaporating the sounds of a shrieking
little boy.

And things on the mend will always twist as if old tree trunks
ruled the hopes of those things possessed. And my frequent
fears will build mausoleums within the paths that I once walked
along. And I will feel like a sail opening in a brand new piece of
sunshine, knowing this makes the fondness of my branches
grow and I will shout high and mighty about any on coming
transitions that seem uncertain and motionless.

The lunatic will always rear his perfect lips and speak truths
with a liver that knows far too many obituaries and I've become
alright with the fact that a beating heart might never cover my
flesh and I've become cynical with elitist voices that shun me
because I'm my own flavor dripping from my tongue, it falls to
the ground and stretches into original ponds and rivers of thought,
maybe not for you, maybe not for those that care the most but
without a sound I will move with the wind, leaving a mark for
those things we most desire, I will be the search that you live
happily with, I will do the things that create a world of comfort,
I will be the loud trumpet rebuilding your broken air.


 

Frank Reardon was born in 1974 in Boston, Ma. He's lived all over the United States and currently lives in North Dakota.  Frank has published poetry collections such as Cancer Face, Exorcism Of The Con-Artist, Rival Tongues and his new  book coming out in December entitled "Interstate Chokehold." Frank also has published in such magazines and webzines as Quillbillies, Black Listed, Epic Rites, Denver Syntax and Kill Poet. Frank is currently locked away in the Badlands working on his first novel...