mornings with hartenbach

i awake to begin in the trying again

it is the why of the matter
our feet endeavor to touch cold floors

never quick to accept
the inevitability of gravity

the machinations of blood and bone

conspiring to live or perhaps
have the courage to die
but not this day

all this before the coffee pot

there are mornings i find
artfully packaged tins of film at my door

tied with simple brown string
stacked in a box made from stained glass

tagged with the human experience
of a man unaware of his own divinity
i eagerly mount them to my reel to reel

light switch off curtains closed

the bleak consistency of a dark theatre
waiting for the light to tell me how his planets were hung

the projection begins
a flood of the human condition

you leave a stand up bass in the corner
for a soundtrack
and stars in canisters for eating during intermission

each image opened from an apothecary chest drawer
where you keep every pain, love, and sensation

my seat floats through the screen into the museum you have built from poetry

a gallery of words rotund
each stone is a line of your thoughts

we patrons have contributed to build
a square bench in the center of your world

perpetually making room for one more
we revolve clockwise as you spin us backwards into your time

we artfully wax on about dying

but you wrote all this
so we could sit
and live

Leave a Reply