Existence, existing and then
the emptying out, the exit.
X marks the spot
where dots are always laid to rest.
I have been pulling a little red meat wagon
existing just before
its hard rubber wheels,
the wagon goes clickity clack,
snick-itty-snit, bumpety bump
uphill or below,
it is eager to run me down
always keen to bark my heels
as I drag it over a shadow shoulder
of a pre & post
being.
On-board
a self-dissolving, yet always open mouth,
must consume
its spiced drops of acid and honey.
It sometimes sleeps,
sometimes dreams,
it is a presence of a presence,
just a hairsbreadth between
this now, and not now - gulp
of living.
Inevitably, we will part,
separated by the raw knuckles
of push and pull,
until a lit exit door
in a long defunct shopping mall
lights our way
to the promise of oneness.
These thoughts we frame and title
hang now from long defunct dendrites,
made branchless by the passé and pointless
now all strung-up upon threadbare strings.
Ones or twice the hanged are molested
by magpies seeking baubles for their nests,
yet most go unrobbed and remain as still as death,
or they twist in chill uncaring winds.
These thoughts shaped to mind-images,
collected together in empty galleries,
these works nibbled at; edited by blind mice
who then hurriedly hide from sight
the slipshod carpentry of our words.
These portraits of spent passions
may still be gazed upon
by the idle few, who beyond all reason
choose to elect a passing cloud
to admire or decry,
plucking out that feathery fragment,
as if it were the real feature
of the faceless and yet untold.
Snowing-- a hiemal, deathly air
Their frigid, frostbitten fingers hold nothing
Uncomfortable silence washes over all there
A petalless, thorny rose someone is clutching
Her corpse, defunct, stiff yet motionless
Skin, once warm brown, now ghastly
Her grinning face, now emotionless
They thought she would die lastly
Life has limits, death endures eternity
From her loss, not a single tear was shed
She, a daughter, never within confraternity
No one ever cared to hear the words she said
So she lay, her arms crossed against her chest
No flowers were dropped upon her frail body
Instead, the thorny rose stabs her breast
Unhuggable cacti she could embody
On her prickly torso, blood streams
No one shall wipe liquid and spikes off
No one shall pay respect, it now seems
They simply do not really care; they scoff
So there she’ll lay, unloved and disrespected
With not blooms and gold, but many a thorn
Only snow showers her, quite expected--
That no one would dare to mourn.
Eventualities don't apply to me
(I can dream)
no matter their presence
in the mirrors of reality
Always one step ahead
though the shrinking distance
haunts
like the miles left for a Tesla charge
eventualities be damned
A proud GTO once sneered
at the pitiful jalopies that
soiled the curb
a roaring young engine
never once to glance at
those left behind -
the defunct riffraff
that Pontiac replaced,
now, their value measured only
by the thump of a
Mecum gavel
The showrooms now occupied
by "green" Prius's
and other hybrid youths
who sneer at discontinued
glutinous appetites
While the GTO,
like a deserted lunar excursion module,
waits for the next Apollo mission -
still
I've learned to celebrate today
until my "jalopiness" overcomes me -
eventualities be damned!
Trucks hauling away defunct Malls.
One city has been transported to another,
until superimposed, only the name are different.
Freeways chase endless miles,
looking for more things to shift,
shlep and shoulder.
Ninety per cent of everything movable
is assembled by 100 percent of new renters.
Oil, cattle, and inflammable gaseous toxins,
are handled by cab radios, satellite commands,
and shredding rubber.
The main drags compete to be anonymous,
wear the same masks, many disintegrate
or morph into closed forever signage.
In the concrete encircled,
whittled-down woods,
lovers try to imagine a better place to live,
one that is not yet on the road.
I am in that basement ward,
the disused one,
the one they park you in
on the way to the morgue.
The usual clutter of broken wheelchairs,
torn screens,
long defunct electrical equipment.
I sense that this is where you are left
until they figure out what to do with you.
In the morning I go to work.
I want to be somewhere else,
when they come to get me.
Dark, heavy clouds hung low
I wanted to continue but I just couldn't go
My vision was blurred and nearly defunct
Rising winds began to harpoon my wheels, leaving
me feeling stumped
Then a supreme voice softly said, "It's okay, now pull over."
So I obliged as I meekly moved to the shoulder
At that moment the clouds began to break
The rain started pouring as my heart started to shake
Copious amounts of rain pelted my windshield
Cacophonous thunder and lightning bellowed
without yield
A raging storm was in full-throttle
No longer in the eye, I was immersed as my
wheels began to wobble
Refuge and peace I wanted and earnestly sought
Then that sweet voice appeared again as it spiritually
taught
"Be still and hold fast, my faithful one."
"This storm will soon pass, so sit it out for
it's already done."
It was summer time, a time for planting and reaping
and when it came to my dad well he could make that garden sing
He spent hours nurturing his plum tomatoes, while I his offspring
could only admire his patience, dedication and caring from afar.
An immigrant of Italy he knew everything there was to know
about big fat juicy tomatoes. He knew they needed time to grow,
and I knew there was a little humor to be had here, in toe.
"Dad, how long will it be before we see our first tomato?" I asked
" Oh not for a while" he answered, then the sun suddenly flashed
Time for a little fun in the sun I thought, off to the store I went
came back with a big fat tomato. I hung it on the plant with some
twine then called him over with an eager voice
"Look dad we got our first tomato, isn't it great ! " I exclaimed
he investigated with a grin, soon my lie had been defunct, defamed
that was a summer when it rained and rained and rained,
we got lots of tomatoes that year, and most of them we canned.
What I never will forget, is the love in my father's eyes,
every time he smiled like that, I was always left with a feeling,
that I had just won the gold prize.
Afore the dusk
My soul's frail, lone, and goner
Sadness cover' me like a busk
Concern' who's to be the new coiner?
While only nix available was flunk
Onset of the defunct night.
I falter in gripe on the cot
Just as a caged cat surround' by rats
My soul start' roving around the spot
The air taken began choking
As helpless baby, my elephant was on squat
I thought the defunct bell was ringing.
After a deep sleep
I woke to get myself in fear
Enclos' by bystanders in weep
My floor fill' with drops of rain
Us' as arctic for the high degrees
All were mysteries of the defunct night.
The urge to travel,
to spread your wings and fly away,
never rooted to one spot.
never spotted on a route.
signpost now defunct,
map a feeble pointer,
direction only by one’s nose.
Intuition in ascendence,
as day and night blur anaemic edges.
Fleet of foot dream chaser,
never-ending sequence,
is chaotically just that.
Event foreman cast,
in a starry-eyed plot,
script writer of their own unique journey,
stagecoach vagrant from,
a who-knows-where platform,
speed bump skipper on a blind course,
taking the "lie" of the land.
In every sense a false scents,
trailblazer has a life of their own,
but tragically a life that both owns,
and disowns them in "equal" measure.
Time-lapse photographer flagged,
by ephemera but doesn't notice,
loop by loop square off,
under amber moonlight passage.
faraway green seeker,
bereft of halting site,
with no stop off in between,
momentum the only resting place
He works alone
in cavernous stockrooms,
or as a night watchman
guarding unwanted things.
He is never behind the counter.
He is the man
who has the social skills
to fill racks.
Occasionally he is found
as a clerical error,
still at work in a defunct depot
long since depleted
of function.
A yellowing Rolodex
may yet yield a contact number
like a mythical footprint.
Someone may need to call him,
but what shall we call him?
Once more
she downloads herself
from a long defunct
floppy disk
Her words are even older
they are typed
by a manual typewriter
under an antiquated
ceiling fan
she tries to explain
the inexplicable
as an error
in her programing
her future was not meant to be
her summer
wanted no more winters
I am at the end and the beginning
wedged between
yesterday and tomorrow
I listen and reload
printing my mind with
endless alternatives
more variables
late blooming sorrows
refresh themselves
we both know
that
gone
is timeless
and
forever
always runs late
The plasma screen was dissolving,
was actually weeping
Something had happened,
something had shocked the television
out of its usual studio-based blah.
A trembling voice announcing:
explorers had discovered the unbelievable.
Whole continents
of defunct and dead lands
were emerging out of a once living past.
We were all amazed, everyone was upset
though not sure why.
What is the perfume perceived? "Rose Meadow",
The one defunct for many a year.
Scent's waft spins in the room of my childhood -
Mater's return... from father's home.
5/10/2023
What am I aware of?
Fingertips
the plastic beat of an electronic heart
as I type - not in the moment
but racing down stream
to a whirlpool
where words surface.
The last sip of coffee
coating the back of my throat;
a lost and found shelf
at the end of a defunct railway line
where my voice
rattles in an empty tin box.
Aware of this self
picking up discarded symbols,
shaking them
wanting them to speak for me.
Aware of this hard backed chair
and its strange power
to reach into a river
and pull out the long drowned.
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