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Poetry 2 Like mentioned on the other poetry page, it's James Dickey-inspired poetry. Not sure why these five ended up on a separate page. It seemed necessary to break up the uploads of dazzling, brilliant prose. (heh, heh)
Plight of the American Finch The shit clogged the pipes and face It was an everywhere sort of time Awash in drippy brown He stood on the other side of the square and took in the overflow with good humour and a belt of scotch Smiling makes the winner Picking at his teeth for no good reason A hammerhead in jeans and jacket The worst of those who won’t carry a gun He turned to his table at their café His guests sipped the coffee not thinking about much but the time There’s a whole world out there sinking A whole world on its hands and knees A whole world crawling and spitting up its ugly past A whole world searching blind on the ground with broken fingers and withered hands A whole world in due flux A whole world wiping itself clean with the darkest coal A whole world turning on its side and crushing the hidden names A whole world making sure the fates are sealed and flung to the bottom of the darkest stone well He returned to his chair a hero and reporter News from afar The awful stuff is awful close folks best to play this one not so close to the chest pay the bill and move to higher ground
Rebecca never believed in the Plight of the American Finch And it would prove to be her downfall
Evening, Commissioner What ho! What comes this way through fire and flood thicket and mud
Our twisting destinies make the salute an archaic and demeaning ritual Part of a moat guarded boys club filled with men not fit to lick our laces HQ is a good million miles away Take my hand like a brother And fill me tales of wonder and valour from across the shrouded plains
Over rocks glasses with quiet palm fronds above the heads The world became as small As the distance between our noses I scan his face for news good news triumphant announcement But find a darkness in his skin That screams while his voice is steady and low
No good here losses there Howls of problems on the side Keeping the home fires burning but Best to keep your eyes up head down
Your stories are pushing me off the face of the earth The grind makes for a damning funk Is there a safer place for shining light Alongside the parables that fill with dust
Are there any good words from the front What can I hold in my heart and have it burn for the dark months ahead
Commissioner stood like a statue I could not hear a wisp of breath He could have died standing up
But he spoke
You can do this You must do this There is no goal but endurance Teeth wrapped in dust A tattered rag shield Feeding off of nature’s dregs Tearing bugs with each breath A fraction of a bank account A what once was a family A strong fog with the darkness Harkening nothing No words left so hold in symbols
The Rest of the House I remember as a youth Visiting the house of parental acquaintances Packed up and placed down like fashionable cattle With a silent tongue and meek fingers Keeping to myself beside gossip and coffee The other rooms beyond my permitted grasp Where imagination rooms are brimming with possibilities Around that corner through that doorway Perhaps a dog sleeping beneath a sunlit window Exotic toys stacked on living furniture Waiting to be bothered by a child like me A strange castle that stretches for miles An upstairs that may as well be the heavens Each door a happy mystery Kitchen smells running along ugly wallpaper A creaky basement where my monsters vacation And a backyard that is a speck on the horizon Through tables and chairs and sliding screen doors But here I was staring at knees and shins Watching the shoe heels dangle off the feet Rapid fire chatter that was boring me to tears My nothing kingdom for a picture books or blocks If I can’t leave the guardian gaze And run roughshod over the new Then to kick the clock forward and get back to Familiar floors and yawning walls Recycled history at every turn If they won’t let me fly At least let me reign in my own cage
December People Walking down the sunlit street On a frosty blue January afternoon I pass right by some December people
Familiar names and faces Rushing by at a breakneck pace No time for a safe stop Not even a smile and nod So we have to glide right on by Meeting only in the shrinking gaze Words sewn tight to the tip of the tongue Caught in a yesterday trap Thoughts cracking through the Sunday skulls What could have happened what should have been done another piercing question a final drink a stronger hand a better way Possibilities piling up in the alleys of my mind Intertwining mercilessly and creating walking maybes and perhaps buildings Plan B is taking over Don’t worry this will only take fractions of seconds Threads unravel and re-align new clouds come together under emergency skies Broken engagements and dropped promises melt and meld Another life away I am walking beside this person and going into the café We don’t have to talk we caught up last night or yesterday or on a slapdash phone call drifting arm in arm or side by side with silent assent except when mumbling for eggs over easy All inside the dreaming splinter caught inside the corner of my eye
Seeing through the backs of heads And this flicker of a world steps back and folds up in an instant
True memories flood me Of words thrown over tables Softer jazz along darkened hallways High moments devouring low culture All in all a tattered past with these flashing faces always falling further and further apart Until they are icicle images frozen and dangling Ready to come down with my own temple
A tapestry of guilt and curiousity rolls up my spine as we pass Pressing me to open up and engage Strengthen unraveling ties Small talk and smaller apologies But no I do not turn back A sting of recognition is all I can afford for December people
In conditions regrettable Blink blink touch the wall idiot hands on the ceiling ass on the floor it’s all coming down the ghost moves fast into your teeth like sucking up a bad dream out from the eyes and down along the cheeks dripping down the neck and weaving in and out of the nostrils a complete spiritual encasement heh heh it’s like that is it a forced sacrifice for the greater good having the future thrust upon you as you lie prostrate on the bed the roof cracking high above dust coming down like snow fear spiraling along on its back ready to burst with timeless energy and ethereal power shrinking the earth to its proper size swallowing rivers and plains with each mindless breath entering into an interzone where truth and lies are coins and cash the literal bursts forth in solid absolutes and the skin cracks like eggs where souls are ripe for castration and the best way to get ahead is to dump your head out on the side of the fiberglass road and keep it empty every time you dive back in don’t let them see the shit in your eyes plug your ears and push it deep down while you bend and twist and operate in conditions regrettable
People movers people eaters trashed chair legs and prosthetic sexing because it’s all the rage and fashion these days and those days it seems so easy and it is it is don’t believe the cynics they are truly hopeful underneath their biting shine and the wheels tells the people to turn back and around and see their footprints in the snow that never melts the snow made of holier water of sterner stuff ho la and hallelujah praise the almighty godollar before it’s to late and we’re all eating mayonnaise sandwiches and filthy drinking water with the dancing thoughts stuck in our skulls asking our souls if we were just wishing against inevitability pushing against a present already arrived stuck in a miasma of eternal recurrence with tongue stuck on frozen clocks and hands warming up in the temporal fireplace while clutching fake brandy and dragging out genuine fear is this the last peaceful sip before I’m fed to the necessary dog masks who hoot and holler with investment banker zeal hot under the collar beside oneself again with a clip off the shoulder and a strung up necktie on the sunny grey concrete down moth eaten alleys and neon lit tragedies in conditions regrettable
Soft piano fingers spit out unruly chords and strike babies hearts and golden years minds with a force that takes the breath out the backdoor and clears the forehead for a final opening to the interzone parade a place for summer fair trollops and flower kissed floats rumbling down the French deigned streets and Spanish alleys with the ghosts of torn apart men who died on the dusty dull crossroads between assurance and terror as things downgrade to swirling repetitive monotony in a room full of pin cushion suns and constitutional plants watered and pruned by ordinary saints that spurned their charity organizations and bit the bullet for a spot on a burning town council as the fascinating entreaties of the infirm and hopeless litter grand estate doorsteps before the echo chamber decrees a right washing of sins and cities across the mediocre hills and seas while the power sits uncomfortably on its throne never getting quite used to the pomp and ghastly circumstance that mars independent thought and happy selfless reason for the good of the blood curdling community on ivory caked stilts in a sea church of grandfather guilt proportions in conditions regrettable
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when the going gets tough, loosen immigration standards | |||