Some stuff turns brain chemistry into a bowl of leeches.
Sawdust that you eat with a platter of fake mints.
When you have mixed up neural slices?
They get disposed.
Neurons.
Doing jumping jacks in unison.
Brains are like billboards.
They eat your eyes.
And get torn down like mush.
My brain chemistry is mine.
Witches brew mindset.
The neurons?
Never made it back.
They got squeezed too many times.
We are tossed by every uneven street
And I try not to recall the ocean
In the heart of this great city-
The cobblestone! The church! The mansions! The soviet blocks!
Wordless stanzas.
Watch the ink
Scratch at half-utterances
World churning
In Grandma's kitchen
1998-
Memory please
Catch the hot wind.
I will be airborne
One day fly back to you
and patience
My virtue dies.
Billboards scream
But I have
Just
Like love, don't want.
My keyboard, the typewriter.
My hand quills
My two-lung stone slabs
Mindless etchings.
Faint anger
And the distant sound of you-
Singing?
ocean waves drift in
wildflowers bend in soft winds—
with gentle curves
soothing calm natural minds
without demands or burdens
curves of rivers' arcs
fractals etched in snowflake veins
caress weary eyes
while urban straight lines shatter—
reflection splinters apart
concrete towers thrust
the geometry of squares
clawing at the sky
every sharp angle pierces—
minds that shrink from the hardness
billboards blast their glare
sirens rip through noisy streets
ravaging the ear
urban harshness stunts the soul—
as chaos frays attention
forest silence hums
its calming hymn without words
restoring the peace
of treasure trove memories
stored away in its clearings
dawn's blush dusk's ember
are halos in sky above—
colorful milieus
that frames the day in colors
soft cuddly and welcoming
(The Hollow City Cycle include:
The Hollow City
I Remember You -- the city speaks
Last One Left)
No footsteps echo on broken stone,
only wind dragging secrets through dust.
The city sighs—
its breath made of ivy and rust.
Windows gape like hollow eyes,
watching nothing, remembering everything.
A carousel groans beneath twisted vines,
still waiting for laughter
that will never return.
Billboards fade into ghost stories.
Sidewalks crack like old skin.
Somewhere, a music box plays
a broken lullaby
to the bones of joy.
This place is a tomb
with the scent of childhood chalk
and the silence of too-late prayers.
Whatever happened here
left no fire,
only
quiet.
Wandering in my darkness of soul
the city cries like a wounded animal
the sky wears a bruised dusk, half-forgotten.
Neon veins pulse through pavement cracks
a river of headlights bleeding into fog
I am lost between the spaces where voices collide
and images recedes
each syllable, a jagged tone
skipping across the river of night.
Crowds move like carrion in cannons
I cannot swim; my eyes grow dim
faces drawn in brushstrokes
of black & white & blood
the air smells like October’s rain
damp with the weight
of all that’s left unsaid.
Concrete whispers under heavy footfalls
orchestrions of solitude
that no one else hears
a city's heartbeat
erratic n harsh
my shadow grows thin
reaching for something
I cannot behold.
Billboards blink, die & burn
something flies above promises
in payment of pavement
too bright, searing
while the ground pulls me apart
eyes open wide shut
to catch my crawl.
Here, in the half-light
streetlights flicker, I fall
wind curls into hollow corners
I vanish between breaths
of a city that never notices
and neither do you.
In the darkness of my soul...
A Greyhound Racing Dog
More than Bite and Bark
A Champion Breed
Determined to always succeed
A winner with a proceed
Greeta’s face pictured on Campaign Billboards
A look
Aim to attract for Advertising jobs
Famous throughout
Audience attention when she is racing about
Greeta is the logo on every Greyhound Bus
People cheer when they see her face
On every Greyhound bus she goes place to place
Greeta known for her acceleration
Faces her competitors with confidence
Moving fast when the Gun blows in an instance
Greeta promise
Winning ways
Numerous awards mount
So many hard to count
Greeta spotlight being the amazing greyhound Dog
Speed and Finesse
Her race scorecards at their best
Greeta is a standalone
Her name of fame is full blown
Everything you see is fashion
From just simple tattered dress
A carpenter hammering a nail
A boy riding a bicycle
A lady poses for a selfie
Throng of people walking the street
A taho vendor in the sidewalk
An office lady typing on her computer
A simple bartender mixing wine
A cook cooking in a simple kitchenette
A construction worker hauling debris
Those passengers lining waiting for a bus
A painter painting sunset at the bay
A mother breastfeeding a baby
A cow eating grass in the field
A bee hopping in every flower sipping for nectar
The busy street like Binondo during Sunday
The passing of the Comulus clouds
The scattered leaves on the backyard
The birds plucking dried grass for a nest
The ads on tv commercial and billboards
Those ramp model ramping on a stage
A newscaster casting the news on tv
Two person playing chess religiously
People in political rallying on the streets
People praying inside the church
A family eating their lunch on a buffet resto
Two people walking hand in hand
Everything that is not moving and moving
It's all fashion for me.
I pack a shirt.
And pants.
And toothbrush.
Did I pack a shirt?
Should pack another and another?
A pillow, for sure.
I’m sleeping on the couch.
So maybe a foam roller for aches.
Food? Drinks?
I don’t know anymore!
Should I pack a swim suit?
A folding chair?
A bowling ball?
My sister almost leaves me behind.
I tried to bring the world with me.
Except, except, except…
The things I always forget no matter how hard I try.
But driving through the country side.
Passing fields and lakes.
Pointing out billboards, and laughing.
I feel like I could go anywhere.
Without packing anything at all.
Everything Trees
They’re shade
From the sunshine
Shield from the rain
Pulp for the paper
And wood for whittling
They’re body’s
For climbing
Arms for a swing
Markers of time
And fruit for picking
They’re trunks
For the tapping
Billboards of love
Home for critters
High on up above
They’re kindling
For cooking
Heat in our hearths
Leaves for the looking
With your sweetheart
So everybody
Listen to me
Give a big hug
To the
Everything tree
Bill MacEachern
10/29/2021
I followed your success,
I heard all of your music, and you sang them great,
what progress,
Names on billboards,
Bet men waiting to be your date
Awards,
What? Who?
That's not me, wait --
you?
I followed your success,
Bet men waiting to be your date
you?
I've heard of the Circus Of The Damned;
By all accounts the rumors are true;
The graffiti makes it seem so grande;
Filled with copper and turquoise blue
billboards have you longing to attend;
In the French Quarter stories continue;
St. Louis boasts a fantasy alive and well;
Vampires perform in this fiendish hub,
gothic striptease mixed with a carnival;
More intense energy than any club,
blood will surely soak your ticket stub.
In streets adorned with neon lights,
We're sold a dream of grand delights,
But beware, for what glitters gold,
May only serve to leave us cold.
The market's claws can gouge and bite,
While we succumb to its great might,
We trade our souls for cheap applause,
And become slaves to want and flaws.
Amidst the aisles and billboards bright,
Our hearts and minds are taking flight,
Toward a place of empty gain,
And we forget to feel the pain.
The urge to buy is hard to fight,
It grips us with its endless might,
And so we spend our precious time,
Chasing wealth that leaves us blind.
In streets adorned with neon lights,
The dangers of commercial sights,
Are clear for all to see and know,
As we watch our true selves go.
We must break free from greed's tight hold,
And learn to cherish what we're told,
For true contentment can't be sold,
Nor can our worth be bought or sold,
In streets adorned.
The phrase was made popular
From a song to encourage all
I travel many highways
And love to observe my surroundings
Many deer love to feed
On the border of this road
Then one day I came
Across this tree
That was off the highway
Into the border of the woods
I saw a sign that caught my attention
I see many billboards and signs
That I just have come to ignore
But this one read on the tree
Jesus take the wheel
At first I was like He's a bad driver
But then it dawned on me
Don't wait to call on Him
Before you are facing death
And He will keep you on His path
For even when this body
Returns back to dust
He will live within to return home
Where’s the beef? The old woman said.
I still see her bulbous nose, parading in my head.
She opens the bun and the hamburger is dinky.
My thoughts about this oldster are incredibly kinky.
Where’s the beef? Was soon printed on white t- shirts.
We were all naming the old lady, us Ethyls and Gerts.
Wendys was bringing people in by the busloads.
I was one of the easily led, coming in on all back roads.
Where’s the beef? Was on billboards against the blue sky.
It brought chuckles a plenty, none of us wondering why.
The old lady with a bulbous nose made us laugh until we were sick.
An advertising executive no doubt got a raise with that gimmick slick.
Nation building
The blond warrior on billboards
of yore has lost relevance
Germany is a tanned nation.
The language is simpler; if
not Grammarly correct.
They sit in last chance saloon
the old guard feels bitter
wearing overcoats and fur hats
Mercedes is no longer produced
production coast.
The frostbitten nation arises
the transformation is complete.
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