Michael D. Amitin

House of Fleeing Winds

I am the crippled saint rapping at the door 
of forgiveness, creaky oiless springs
a house of fleeing winds
thoughts darting across a sea of wanton olive skin night

I am the storm rattling iron door handles
stone churches dangling over faded waters, orphaned rains
dark seaport nights
young wives of the sailorhood praying for good to come 
no widow’s hand to touch
the merry band shoves out to Brittany wine darkness 

I am the star of storms
whipping brewed mists
and mandolin ash bone trysts
sunrise-blue groans 

I am the nail in my hop-along cassidy coffin
pining lust busted caverns
in a torrent of rain on dream street

born backwards my dice tumbling rocky roads
eternally awkward in the hall of cracked-eye perfection

zen-headed dottard riding a youth dew vapor throne 
in a dime dance parade 
oopa oopa cops with maiden-bated breath 
hangovers hanging on a thread of orderly 

In a nightmare I saw a
warrior of yore darning obedience stockings
Redyard Rudyard cries
‘An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it’. 

St Vitus does the jerk over red hot coals
as the earth hums a dirge in the key of catastrophe
the kids chanting Runaway

I saw God
he looked me in the eye from a soft orange cloud 
whizzing over rumble town
I am the star of storms escorting you through 
red-light servitudes
scorned devil moons, brooding mama’s

lady peppermint fondling the jade egg of Napoleon’s daydream 
the messianic bus driver honking with his tin-horn hat
better climb aboard. or run for your life
fast