The White Horse Cambridge Jenkins IV
YOU MAY READ, PRINT AND DISTRIBUTE THIS WORK AS MUCH AS YOU LIKE. HOWEVER, PLEASE DO NOT TAKE CREDIT FOR IT. I AM PRETTY SURE YOU HAVE INTERESTING STORIES OF YOUR OWN. SO GO WRITE YOUR OWN POETRY. THANKS. Published by CAMBRIDGE JENKINS IV Atlanta, GA 30318 WWW.REVENGEOFTHEPINKPONY.COM CJENKINSIV@GMAIL.COM Copyright © 2008 Written and Edited by Cambridge Jenkins IV Cover design Cambridge Jenkins IV E-Book design Cambridge Jenkins IV
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 â€“ it didn't mean anything a crisp, hip-level fog moistened the soil and dewed the lawn it was like some never-ending storyâ€Ś 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 â€“ just leave me alone and let me die like I am supposed toâ€Ś
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 â€“ 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 â€“ 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 â€“ 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 â€“ 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 â€“ simply to see, hear or know about you plopping and spraying your guts into the only white god there will ever be â€“
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 nextâ€Ś
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?
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