The Abandoned Station






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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 wonít carry a gun

He turned to his table at their cafť

His guests sipped the coffee not thinking about much but the time

Thereís 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 natureís 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 canít 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 wonít 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

Donít 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 cafť

We donít 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 itís 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 itís 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 donít 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 itís all the rage and fashion these days and those days it seems so easy and it is it is donít 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 itís to late and weíre 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 Iím 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



when the going gets tough, loosen immigration standards