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In the slow burnin' evenin’,
In the stale-air day of winter,
With the sun a-making her decent,
Due East,
A fury of orange, sunflower seed,
Mendin' softly into purple,
We make our pilgrimage.
A product of an industrial-age,
The combustion engine we use,
Coughs and heaves smoke,
As we make the steady climb,
Sally has her window cracked,
The freezin' temperature quickly,
Outwits the opposing, heaters force,
As she sits in silent,
Indifferent cognations,
T' the moment,
As she takes light puffs from,
American spirits.
Beside her was Andrew,
Her boyfriend both,
Unshaven physically and mentally,
Seems like his meditative state of being,
Is consistently interrupted by,
Youthful energies,
For his left leg twitches madly, unconsciously.
At the wheel was an ol' friend,
An Irish lad, puffin' mad circles of pipe tobacco,
Navigators blend,
Charlie always wore an ol' newspaper boy hat,
As his dirty brown curly hair danced out,
While driving,
He would mumble inaudible words to himself,
Knowin' the loud music he surrounded himself with,
Would always fill the space.
The music in the car,
Loud enough to over power all the senses,
Were grand eastern chants,
Sung like holy prayers,
In (...)
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Today I met the devil,
He stood beside me in complacent,
Well-adjusted dominant stance, where,
That bastard is always found,
The crossroads.
As the sun fell 'neth,
Clouds ominous enough t',
Prelude extinction.
The crosswalk yelled at my vision,
A dark binary "Don't walk",
T' cease the possibility of regrettable action,
(seemingly odd though when approached,
By the dark lord),
and he didn't just put his foot in the door,
He threw a brick at the window.
An old lady crossing the street, unable t' have a,
Gait fast enough t' make it before,
The red letters flashed crimson,
Faced off againist a car, whose impatient owner nearly hit the women,
Who in return, sat in front of her sluggish crawl of-a-walk,
So he may smack his horn repeatedly in vile disgust.
"Why doesnt the guy just hit her?"
"Huh?"
"W-h-y d-o-e-s-n-t t-h-e g-u-y j-u-s-t h-i-t h-e-r",
"Because, goddamnit its... its unethical!"
"HA, ethics? Look at that woman, how old do you suppose her t' be?"
"I dunno... 80 somethin'?"
"Exactly! An' how the hell can one live life so long? Modern medicine."
"Yeah? An' what of it?" (I prodded knowin' he care for my thoughts, only his (...)
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Lukewarm Night Stale Ambition
Damned ambitions. They never had a fightin’ chance. I guess society is hang up on the cessation of youthful energies ever bein' released in any sort of decent matter, ‘cause when the moon drags her sorry self across the curve of the heavens all shudders close while the young, restless, madness drivin’ youth squirm in their seats as blood in their high-fructos’d veins dance wild reenactment of jazz, almost breaking meter. Always in the processes of self-devastation, our generational motto, “Oblivion Bound!” in fuckin’ capitals till the ship hits the proverbial glacier, an’ things get real interestin’ real quick. But till then we are t’ be kept sedated, held t’ our shit service jobs an’ note-card knowledge spat up into young mind in universities t’ fill useless gaps in the coggin’ machine of societal affairs.
HA.
My tale has as much relation t’ the above as disapproves off, a happy little medium space all events like t’ occupy in accordance t’ theory, written in dry Texan dirt on a black an’ white page. It all started when I just got over servin’ 10 or so hour sentence at my place of appointment an’ my bones were ready for resurrection. I called up Skylar an’ his stand by gal, a sweet little thing whom adopted the name Amanda at birth.
“Hello?”
Skylar! Hey buddy this is Ron, how the hell is life treatin’ ya?”
“Blissfully.”
“Good, man listen (...)
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The audience take to their seats, the ones issued remorselessly onto slips of paper, whose donating words lend passage t’ said seats taken. Over-head, projected whispers mutter useless entries in life’s pages, filler content for a childlike consciousness whom can’t stand idleness, is afraid of void. Underneath this humanist hearth is the dull ignition of musical grace as strings bend into mathematical tone, reciting scripture, as heard under vocal reverberations of angels, with harps t’ give harmony. Then lights dim into somber meditation as red drapes unfurl themselves from the stage, t’ the establishin’ melody, who’d be the theme, sayin’, “Look life is just a dream”. In the shroud of darkness approaches a man, neither bound by historic reference nor physicality, merely voice.
“The sins of my father! oh circular nature! Inspire a learned hopelessness! Weariness beyond flesh! Where is the golden melody?”
Each line delivered like a spike, impalin’ the audience, their souls squirm in their meta-physical seats.
(Its all a dream)
heard in echoes
The lights come, blindin’ at first then dim t’ appropriate sun-decoy, reveling ghetto’d street slum, as a hobo, lookin’ much like a clown minus make-up, makes up sad blues on banjo’s American traintrack rhythm. A man walks through the aisles of the theater t’ herd the audience who then walk across the stage back an’ forth, indifferent extras actin’ t’ a (...)
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The record player cracks white noise ‘neth saxophone utterances that can’t overtake the madness of bombs bellowin’ hellish chants. Brown dust draws down the ceilin’, the tickest of all rain, that hits the lungs like barbed wire, buildin’ cancerous coughs all around. What a hell-of-a-party!
“ha”, smirks Willard. (one of those lousy laughs rats always mutter)
“Ya find somethin’ humorous?” Clark answer’d, bitter-tongued.
“Well it’s just…” It always takes a moment or two for Willard t’ collect his rainwater thoughts into his verbal gutters, “Those bombs out there are musically accentin’ our record. Maybe this whole damned war is all just some silly accompaniment t’ Glen Miller.”
Grim smiles all ‘round.
Laughter can’t dismantle bomb raids, lest this late in the game (the players just wanna go home, t’ their wife, meatloaf night an’ a border collie named Spike).
“Everthin’ in its rightful place – by the grace of god.” Lucille said in slight gleam of breathe, exhaled from worried some lips. Trembling.
“What the hell does that mean Lu?”, Clark likes language t’ be straight, a no nonsense guy.
Lucille retorts in tired irritable intonation, “Well Clark I’m a just seein’ some light of god in all this, his holy dominion.”
A nearby blast sends out soundbreakin’ shockwave, momentarily stuckin’ the air from the conversation.
Clark: “Oh jesus Lu don’t (...)
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