Proud Jackhammers Break out, Backward Attempt Toward A [lost] Love Poem

'The world is all forgetting, and the heart is a rage of directions' - Leonard Cohen

for KK & for VG

Working over old attempts at poetry, many
laments dedicated to or about, or accusative
of, the two Indian lovers after whom I no longer
pine but, perhaps, oak, or holly

but good memories of what, for me at least,
would be their gleaned love after a lifetime
of nought, but reach, inward-turned, burns
to a bindu point as yet to be seen but it is felt
familiar bad weather

Call it spurn or better

This adhered old ache breaks open familiar
sorrows neither lent nor borrowed for what
they are worth or were, hurt-worth, a new
category of value though such with booze
or nostrums varied are still hard to swallow

So now they chorus call,
no, they bellow

See?

The wallow is ready
Just took three doses in three different forms

Who knew self pity had as many or more
forms when just one would do

Now cued Cruel City's proud jackhammers break
out just for me, they're in my innermosts too

they stammer so so shake both wall
and floor yet not without some fitful
rejoicing such as are their ever

inclement hallelujahs