Short Turnstiles Poems

Night light star spirals
Galaxy streetlight full moons
      Dark matter fuse box
      Planetary plentitudes
local groups enter turnstiles...

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I clock in my own breath,
Minutes stack like folding chairs.
My limbs queue for permission,
Time herds me through its turnstiles.
We all wear the same silence—
Pressed suits, creased with wanting....

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Tollgates on redemption road
calling out my name

Turnstiles of a fated past ...
exiting the blame

Looking back all fares are paid
new pathways to begin

Eyes now closing, heart at rest
— salvation free within

(My Son Trystan & I — April 16, 2024) 
...

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We left the stadium after awhile
Exiting though the open turnstiles
To find inappropriately clad in licra
And standing on top of a Micra 
A very fat woman singing opera
From on top of that poor little car
When I heard a laugh from my lad
Who then said “It’s all over then Dad”...

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Well babe,
 we is in Purgatory being purged during this ride,, 
and the turnstiles are waiting on the other side, 
to see whether its New York or Somalia on the flip side,
or a more subtle hell in the Earth...

to slide, 
this knowledge is all that you're worth,
not again came the echo ...denied...

Don Johnson...

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Apr 2012
Chennai

I ask you, sir!
Of late, inanimate
Toothless, tethered
Can’t jump turnstiles

     "Agree, align"
     "Ask, but smile"
Mute, asinine

     "Uncalled, unnice"
     "Pushy, out-of-style"
You know, I’m fine

      "A wish, undone"
      "Exit, condone"
      "Look back, smile"

      "Unearth, sift"
      "Write," but why?
Unbonded, servile

Alive, a life
…Sad, demise...

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We can always escape 
with your hand in mine, 
it's in the pills that you offer me 
but I shy away.
It's in the drink that you poor in me
and I cannot refuse.

Saturday night, we're running away, 
through the turnstiles relentlessly, 
flowing downstream, 
it's the only way. 
With your hand in mine 
I feel your pulsation echoing through me 
again and again, 
again and again....

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It already seems so long ago
    transactions went
      'clink, clink, clink'

  Now that we all buy online
    our 'turnstiles' go
      'click, click, click'    

  The first way requires me
    to get up off my duff
  The second lets me laze away
    in pj's ~ that's not so tough 

  Between 'clink, clink, clink'
    and 'click, click, 'click' ~
  Which one have you picked?...

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Well versed are traversed
.....the fully immersed,
versatile thru the turnstiles
left behind are footprints
that go on for miles....

Magnetic is the wheel
that you constantly feel
circadian is the rhythm
....souls migratory zeal,
compasses direction
.......in chaotic spin,
intoxication is the motion
unknowing whereupon to begin....

The flow of the energy,
eventually pulls....
unified synergy,
lifting heads above in lull.........

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