Wolf Den

They Can't See the Teeth...

Photo by Samuell Morgenstern on Unsplash | Altered by David C. Roberson in Photoshop

This has been referred to as “one of Dave’s psycho, stream-of-consciousness poems.” I don’t know if that’s good or bad for you, lovely reader, but the description made me laugh with glee at the time.

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Wolf Den
04/15/2008
by David C. Roberson

There's nothin’ to tell,
what hasn't been said.
Just one more man
livin’ till dead.
Livin’ for dreams,
sleepin’ for peace,
hungry for knowledge,
sowin’ somethin’ to reap,
with the world on his back
like everyone else
who can see any kind
of worth in themselves.

Dressed in drab colors,
pagan icons with lines:
band names and brand names,
folk heroes and lies.
Shrouded in secret,
with a heart that is gold,
a part of the puzzle
that makes pictures old.

In nature he cries
with two tongues in tandem:
afflicted, conflicted,
convicted, restricted!
No time for rest,
or you'll be evicted,
and wrought with the woes
all at random.

Till The Death-Bringer brings you
to feel like a phantom—
just hover, just glide,
and slide right on through,
caught in the world
with nothin’ to do,

but look at the life-blood consumers—
drinkin’ and slurpin’
your innards for supper—
who sin and grin
with your loved ones and kin,
and they never think twice
the danger they're in—
they can't see the teeth
of the wolf in the den,
who devours the poor
and the proper
(but equal in sin)
wearin’ glitter and toppers
that make them to everyone shine,
with sick, sour breath hid well behind
a faux fragrance feintin’
orange, lemon, and lime.

But you see it all,
because you're immune,
since you yourself are invisible
to the people in bloom.
And they all say you're bitter,
they all say you're mean,
but the truth is you've been there,
you know how it seems.

And it's just not the way that they're seein',
cause you once got swallowed
by that smile that was gleamin’.
Chewed by a shark
that was still busy teethin',
dissolved by the acid
down in the beast's belly,
eaten away till your bones were all jelly.
And your soul started walkin'
down sidewalks and alleys,
lookin’ for something to eat,
cause you're beat down
and kicked up,
and bruised black and meek.

“And the meek shall
inherit the Earth,” so it said
in that Bible you read,
when your soul hadn't bled
and you thought you were fed.

But you pushed it away
when you grew to large stature,
and now you wonder:
was that your departure?

Did religion deny you,
or did you deny it?
Was it somethin’ you needed,
Or just somethin’ you did?

Or was it a gate to the spirit?
Or was it some rule,
and you didn't want to hear it?

Or was it just somethin’ they said—
the preachers and prophets
who constantly read,
whose words echoed loudly
in the back of your head,
while spectres and spirits
flew by you in bed.

Those old folks proclaimed,
“Oh, it will be great
when Jesus comes back—
His army to raise!”
But you were always a-shakin',
And prayin’ your best,
twitchin’ and quakin’,
wonderin’ if you would be left.

Left, left behind
like some dime-store teddy bear
on a shelf in the check-out line
since mom was too broke
to buy somethin’ sublime.

But it would stay gold
for only a second,
til you lost your mind
to some newer perspective,
some prettier toy
that could make old rejected—
the shinier toy
with the store lights reflected.

Tossing old out for trinkets
with the modern day touch,
light like a feather that’ll do you in dutch—
the bauble that most surely arrives,
with even less time
than the last toy contrived.
Got crammed in containers
and shipped out with haste,
placed between school books
and pencils and paste—

Something made new to turn old,
covered in dust and memories and mold,
just like you'll be there—
stuck in the ground,
stuck in some casket
with never a sound,
to scream from your lips
that just move from the rottin’,
the flesh that won't last,
just a housin’ for somethin’—
somethin’ that makes you a man,
or a woman or child,
not an animal or plant,
a creature that needs to be saved,
a soul that can go up or down,
some will say.

And I think it can,
I believe it with strength,
I can see it in day,
I can see it in dreams.

But dream's just a word
that describes a strange vision
that haunts you and creeps you
and stalks your decisions.
Some are retained,
others lost to revision.
Some lurk in subconscious
and inner divisions.
Some made from fears,
and some out of love,
some come from Hell,
some from above.

Decipher them quickly,
And wisely as well
Prepare for your
Interpretation to fail.

And then you awake
to find you're a ghost,
still alive—
but you have
to make the least into most.