The Discounted World

The Lined, Dusty Verse

A poem is a eulogy for the present.

Father, mother wailing strangled by fire, hallucinogen shire.

The seconds slip by, drip-drop into the sea,

each drop that drips down a reminder of life in my veins, a physical body that runs and remains, unlike the life that suffers and cries, unlike the life the world denies.

Weeping outside, mourning for the unknown, soaking the streets, the running rivulets of a world’s sorrow.

I speak to God, but don’t hear back- He has nothing to say to me.

Not my problem, the Big World says, watching our neighbors get fucked in the bright light of day.

Tears appear, shining on a sweetest face, shimmering like the crystal twinkle of stars lost in the giant vastness of space. My eyes forced open with fistfulls of ash, and I spin turning, and turning endlessly burning-

I become so lost deep inside others, that you stick your finger down your throat and taste me.

Stolen- the craft of creation leaving behind a messied palate of lackadaisical imitation. Civil rights in the sixties can only be found with scraps from the fifties, in a second hand shop, left for the thrifties -

the red onion laughs and laughs, 

end this torrential downpour of a day.

The sun rises hurriedly to light the cool dark air of a sleepless night,

the falling water softly soothes, a salve on the burns of the people-

Healing for today, tomorrow.

A slow stroll through soggy streets, endless rows of the same house- bed and breakfast signs pathetically fluttering in bare concrete lots, whimpering out,

My boots ignore everyone.

I put on a hat and shuffle about, warding off spirits by changing my path shouting like a crazy man kindling fires in the corner. I drink my wine wait for my sign.

Smells like flowers, I think to myself - all the showers streaming from the skies, too bad it doesn’t rain pies. Giggling I rise from my daze, stumble around, return to the ground.

My journey to the sea is a buzzing, speeding, bricked up automobile.

From the ground to the sky to the ground - all around - stretching to fully enclose the shrieking clouds in their burning shrouds. My jacket is black, my pants are gray, I am part of the sea, I belong to the day.

My eyes fill with sand and skimming gulls, breaking crests and shaking waters - my soul begins waking. Do not feed the birds, feed the sea. Tomorrow is here, and my tongue is hungry.

The tripping troupe trickles in, swaying with fervor, rhythmically gasping and moaning- you glazing shimmering sheen seem to transform in a second to a behemoth unseen!

Oh, beautiful pianist playing piano, mindlessly caressing the white, black and gray melodically cooing with stretched nimble fingers, growing old - oh please piano, play.

The delicate playing and pattering softens with a murmured brush, and the easel of notes lazily cascade, gently dipping the seconds slowly into silence.