ENJOY The White Horse below this post...

Hey everybody! This is a suite of 8 poems inspired by a muse of mine... It was written at 6:30 this morning. Between 6:30am and 9:30am, I did nothing but sleep and write - not really all the way sleep, not really all the way writing. I was sleep the most when composing the suite's opener, "The White Horse", which is based on a dream I was having when I woke up. Upon waking, I grabbed my pen and my pad (still half-way in another world) and began to write. There is no way I can re-create anything written in this suite if the originals are misplaced, for I was truly someone else, somewhere else. I hope that you can appreciate it; I hope that you like it. Thanks

CJ

All Poems (c) Cambridge Jenkins IV

PS - I KNOW it's long :-P Just print it, or come back and read a new one everyday or something :-)

The White Horse

Why wouldn't the horse
just leave me alone?
it kept climbing through
the back seat of the car
not a pony, but a horse,
breathing its odorless forest
gases into the car,
and all over the back
of my neck, it's cold,
wet nostrils dripping all over
the seats
it wasn't even a unicorn,
wasn't even lucky
there wasn't anything
to pet or rub or stroke
or kiss while I said
three to seven magic
words – it didn't mean anything
a crisp, hip-level fog
moistened the soil
and dewed the lawn
it was like some
never-ending story…

It was like one of those
dogs that keep coming up
to your hand -
and even though there
was nothing in it,
some kind of way the dog
believed that something
was going to
manifest in your heart,
travel through your chest
and down your arm,
then magically pop up
through your palm
somehow, the dog
believed in magic,
and I believe in God,
but I don't believe
in magic – so I guess
I don't believe
in God.
Silly dog…

It was one of those
kids you didn't want
to claim – a son whose
real father bastardized
happily
but, hey, the kid always
thought you were cooler
anyway
I didn't want anything
it had to offer
I didn't have anything
it felt like it should take
I didn't have anything!
I had no desire to ride
it off into anybody's
sunset! I didn't want
to go to war!
There was no damsel
to rescue,
or town to save
!

White stallion,
with clean nose
and pure heart –
and probably more
noble intention than
a friend I've known
all my life, and been through
everything with –
leave me
ALONE!
STOP
trying to climb into
my back seat!
keep your pure, honorable breath
off of my windows!
your clumsy hooves
only gash my crown,
and your passion
only embarrasses you
white horse, white horse –
just leave me alone
and let me die
like
I am
supposed to…

Untitled (1d)

I have inherited
the clumsy heart
of my mother
my muses do not always
know my true feelings
some of them
may never understand –
even after reading this –
even if I am still around,
semi-sane,
still able to explain –
and I would probably
try
without really
trying

My blush is what happens
when my heart cannot
become any more
red
my smile is a result
of my soul jumping
for joy until it has weakened
my core and broken
my surface
my lament is the poem
I cry through a pen
and bleached tree pulp
when my eyes
and voice can cry
no longer
I don't lust
I don't crush
I fall,
I trip,
I tumble,
I die –
even if only for the moment
we are sharing a drink
or a meal or a useless
conversation –
I dissolve.

I breakdown into
my most basic elements,
and for the moment,
become one with
your current as you stream
through life
and I KNOW
you may not feel
the same
I KNOW
you may not want the same
you may not ever
want me swimming
close to you,
and you wouldn't dare
dream of me swimming
inside of you,
but please, always know,
beauty with the rich timbre,
bottomless soul –
I am always peeking
down into you,
always sneaking
a listen or
touch or
sniff and,
of COURSE,
I am
fucking
in
love.

Untitled (2d)

The only sure things
I can offer you are
that we will both
die someday,
gravity is not some
cruel magic trick,
and somewhere,
Tarzan-ing across my
nerves,
and kayaking up and down
my arteries
is a little purple man
with webbed feet
and fingers,
screaming your name,
showing pictures of you
to all of my angels,
posting pictures of you
on the walls
of my organs,
and offering a reward
for your safe return
from the darkness
of last
night.

Untitled (3d)

Somewhere inside of me
is an angry orchestra
a disgruntled group
of expressions –
boos and hisses and curses
and salmonella-laced tomatoes
for reasons
I cannot explain
and just when they have
tossed their instruments
into a pile, and are about
to set the lighter-fluid to it –
because the price of gas
would make you throw
yourself in the fire –
YOU
come along

They gather on the floor
to the knock of your heels
they ready their embouchures
for the taste of your direction
they find their rightful instruments
and patch them up
with their own skin
they sit
or stand
or whatever they do
you raise your hands
and the viola pluck,
the cello stroke,
the tympani pound
are just
like
kissing you
used to be

Untitled (4d)

Your spirit is
grainy earth
and foamy wave,
ceiling fan breath
across my face,
underexposed photograph,
for which I can
find no negative;
brittle box-spring,
flattened pillow,
shriveled tulip,
dry-eyed willow;
you possess
no need for me
no need
for me
at all.

Untitled (5d)

Pancake smothered just enough,
butter melted only
'round the edges,
sunlight spreads; yet,
doesn't wake me
swinging doors,
which make no sound,
mice you'll never know
are there
heartbeat you may never feel
completely undressed
and dancing with yours,
scent I'll never
become addicted to,
taste I'll never
become addicted to,
hair I'll never
untie from mine,
hugs during which
you'll never feel
the hard-on,
lips my lips may never
dream upon,
poems we may never share,
bonds we may never
explore

I curl my note,
lick it so you will know
what I taste like
if you ever become curious
when I am gone
I seal my note
with heart-string,
drop it through the bottle
mouth
cork,
glue,
bolt,
burn,
pray
the bottle shut,
and hope that you
never learn to sail
or swim
or dig
or discover –
because maybe things
are sweet and perfect
just
the way
they are.


Untitled (6d)

The last thing
you probably want to
see, hear or know about
while you're scrabbling eggs,
frying bacon and toasting toast
for all of the
more important, more familiar
people in your life,
is some random
grown man you
barely know,
plopping and spraying
his guts into
the only white god
there will ever be,
daydreaming and fantasizing
about you both
plopping and spraying
your guts into
the white god
together someday,
or some night –
even if only
for that one time

And the last thing
I probably want to
see, hear or know about
is
the smell of your cooking,
the heat of your breath
or the magic of your touch –
simply to
see, hear or know about
you
plopping and spraying
your guts into
the only white god
there will ever be –
with someone
else

But as long as you
stand so close
to your open window,
doing what you do,
then so will I sit
close to mine
waiting
to see, to hear, to know
what will happen
next…

Untitled (7d)

If we do this correctly ,
all we will need
are two pigeon feathers,
your body
and my body

We will dip
into you
and etch brown realities
into the clouds
we will rub me
into the clouds,
and smudge away
what we do not
like

And then,
who cares about
what the rest
of the world
has to say
about
anything?