Third One

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2009/01/13

Not for boxes packed with the move back home,
Not for ten transgressions etched black in stone,
Not for sideshows of one too many thin chances blown,
Not for scars connecting the skin to dry hard bone,
Not for words said wrong, not for names unknown,
Nor for coming in tired, abandoned, empty, alone,
Not for shoes I took off at the door,
I'm not saying what this one's for.

Not for sunglasses hiding my bedroom-bruised eyes,
Not for boring camouflage, not for plain disguise,
Not for dreams of all color and shape and size,
Not for accidents nurses and doctors can categorize,
Not for histories our wet daydreams dramatize,
Nor for resignation nor surrender nor compromise,
Not for quantity less, not for quality more,
I'm not saying what this one's for.

Not for vicious recycles engaging in total collapse,
Not for evil conspiracies pulling off synthetic traps,
Not for arrows and circles and borders scraped into my maps,
Not for where I've gone numb from the pressure of tourniquet straps,
Not for what I'll complete, not for what I'll abandon as scraps,
Nor for if, nor for whether or not, nor for even perhaps,
Not for turning this into a chore,
I'm not saying what this one's for.

Not for practicing at my evasion, not for acting frank,
Not for finding an empty space to fill into the blank,
Not for how fewer last times I've got stored in the bank,
Not for craving that look you give me for this or that prank,
Not for helping you out when you've no one to thank,
Nor for the telltale stripe I'll proudly sport from the spank,
Not for mute cries of the torture in store,
I'm not saying what this one's for.

Not for songs translated from a lost ancient code,
Not for books on surviving a life on the open road,
Not for skipping the pinch of gist from my next episode,
Not for carrying bricks from the pile I try to unload,
Not for sharing the risk that my throat will not explode,
Nor for sonnet, sestina, sapphics, elegiacs, ode,
Not for making my bed on your floor,
I'm not saying what this one's for.

It's not as though you and I have some purpose to share.
You could get it confused as you do, and I wouldn't care.

And not for rehearsing the ropes for portraying the brat,
Not for giving the kiddies a clown they would only poke fun at,
Not for launching new ventures sure to fall fast and fall flat,
Not for turning this into a trade of my tit for your tat,
Not for parking my beggar's boots on an unwelcome mat,
Nor for seeing my way back to slumming down msn chat,
Not for spiking the poem du jour,
I'm not saying what this one's for.

Not for merchant or trader or priest or soldier or bard,
Not for darkness by the full moonlight lightly marred,
Not for foreign balances sketched into a last tarot card,
Not for desert silence scorched and chipped and charred,
Not for innocent girls that time and man make hard,
Nor for ink marking up all the skin I haven't yet scarred,
Not for making our peace with the war,
I'm not saying what this one's for.

Not for those who will not hear, not for those who won't read,
Not for those for whom I stitch jokes in their time of need,
Not for denim and leather and metal and silk each disagreed,
Not for secret pages the altars on which my dreams bleed,
Not for ransomed ultimatums my future finds freed,
Nor for fairy tales guaranteed, nor for bibles refereed,
Not for thoughts even you might choose to ignore,
I'm not saying what this one's for.

Not for freezing points reached by my blood alcohol,
Not for encore applause at this drugged curtain call,
Not for coveted hiccoughs in strict protocol,
Not for sanitized archetypes stretched wall to wall,
Not for you know whose rising nor for his downfall,
Nor for everything you in me still after all,
Not for deaths we're supposed to abhor,
I'm not saying what this one's for.

Not for adding back in all the words I already left out,
Not for humming the nightmare this nightmare's a nightmare about,
Not for strangling each whisper until it's squeezed down to its shout,
Not for gouging my brain for the blood when I'm suffering from drought,
Not for grunts, squeals, and snorts spit out of my dirt-churlish snout,
Nor for questions, suspicions, uncertainty, distrust nor doubt,
Not for faking a worthless rapport,
I'm not saying what this one's for.

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