Recent Work By Daniel Moore

Obviously, with the title, ‘Waxing the Dents,” one might think we could have a lot of car poems here, maybe, but really what is the internal connection between those words and the title poem?

Well, let’s just say there is a tracing of the track, so to speak, between the disconnect, damage and  brokenness of relationships, mainly as found in my own relationships between Fathers and sons and men in general due to what I perceive to be our lack of intimacy skills.

As the last stanza in the poem says,

He thought the fact that we’d
gathered there, under a
blazing, burnt August sky,
proved we had passed that
place on the road where
father and son kill each other
for fun, rather than spending
a long, silent day waxing the
dents in what men made to
carry them both far away
from each other.

Of course, you didn’t know. How could you

It’s not as if you were raised like the others,

grown from the ground of the ruptured & raptured,

 

the sweetly forgiven, abandoned to the truth

of never settling down with the unsettled self,

with words they denied & flesh they condemned

 

for not believing in what the hands used to call the soul,

which turned out to be a misunderstanding;

you thought they said soil.

 

The gritty, gone, going away of everything

precious and good. A mudslide boy,

down the hill of all your hopes and dreams,

 

the daily unfolding of your disappearance,

a black & white print of your cheap silhouette,

hat an angry god fondled with guilt, while choking

 

on mirrors he said was the light. How painful the

swallowing must have been, & still be so wrong

about being right, like all religions based

 

on blood and the million ways to spill it.

Of course, you didn’t know.

How could you?