Month: January 2015

Recursive

We are supposed to learn
from our mistakes…
supposed to adjust…
no fucking hope there.
It’s the same shit
every
fucking
time.
There’s no chance
for me
now.
I’m going to lose.
I want to be OK
with that…
but I’m not.
I will fight
with my only weapon:
a broken learning-curve..
no fucking hope…
no fucking hope.

Different days

Spotted through the rear window
of an ambulance in transit
the old man reclined on a gurney
with an oxygen mask.
It was Tuesday morning
and my knee was swollen
and packed in ice
to weather another day
of humping product
through the grocery maze.
He looked at ease
and the lights on the ambulance
weren’t flashing.
Nevertheless
he was having a much worse day
than I could imagine
and now my knee
hurt a little less.

Adrift

How long
must I wait
for brief moments
of unaltered
euphoria?
Longer
now
as time goes on.
Landmarks
of prior moments
litter
my memories:
Birth of my child;
saturated with sound
at a concert….
Too few now.
In my youth
I lived
bathed in
euphoria,
like an endless
desert sun…
baking my soul
with mind rattling
consciousness.
I owned the world…
or a piece of it.
The desert is still here…
but that sun
is harsh
and that euphoria,
the constant periods
of joy,
are few
and unoften.
I am either numb
or
drifting off.

Inside the eye

The quiet moments

are hard to notice.

In my youth

I was deaf to them

and pushed past

their sweet secrets.

I know,

now,

to heed them,

and to be available

to their urgings.

Sometimes

the day is hectic

and the schedule untenable…

my younger self,

frustrated,

pushed on

and lit the other end

of the candle….

Now I hear:

“Be still,

settle yourself,

mind the moment.”

And so I do.

This is why,

though,

while I may mourn

the loss

of a youthful physique,

I would not trade

the now

and lose this insight

that grants a “peace”

inside this chaos.

Dream, infected…

In the dream
the end-times had come
in the form of zombies…
and society was losing.
I had a shotgun,
of course,
and the remnants
of the army
needed all the hands
they could get.
The only remaining officer
was a chaplain.
As he handed me
a box of shells,
he pointed to a larger box,
full of the same,
and said,
“You’d better hold this door for us,
and get right with the Lord.”
I glanced around,
the hallway was crowded
with desperate faces.
He turned to go,
I grabbed his arm
and spun him back.
“The Lord? “
I said, with indignation,
“People are dying,
and you’re worried
about the Lord?”
He looked at me
with eyes burnt
by endless waking terror
and said,
“People are dying,
and it’s the dead
who are doing the killing…
of course I’m worried
about the Lord.”
I chambered a shell
and watched him leave.
I turned,
to the heaving door
that seperated sunrise
from sunset…
Then
my alarm clock chimed
and that world
slid
quietly
away

Gird

Brace yourself,

young man,

you are twenty,

or so,

and music

moves you…

anchors you…

frees you…

speaks through you.

Any new song

(artist, movement…)

may be a sirens call

to your soul.

Not so much

at 20 X 2.

I have become

unreachable

to the new sounds.

They are nice,

I can appreciate the nuance,

find energy in composition,

satisfaction in the artistry…

but I cannot answer

their beckoning tones….

To much hangs

on my shoulders

now:

the house,

the car,

the spouse,

the child,

the routine,

the job,

that provides

for all

the above.

I cannot be hooked

by the intellect

of well-crafted verse

or clever rhythm

anymore.

But do not be concerned,

young man,

all is not lost.

I can still be drugged

by the sounds of my past;

they pull at me.

These prior soundscapes

have become louder

than, “the now.”

That

is what

getting older

is.

Brace yourself.