090815A
------------
Life is too often the debris
of all the little failed attempts
at various conquests
looming large as its fallen.
There is too much waiting
for the end
of whatever it is the ending of.
We learn that from television.
We learned to tune in,
and to tune out,
from attention to various stations
while were small children.
We are looking for something
that would be a little bit of heaven,
always worried
that they might take it all away.
We count up the items
as to everything
that we were too afraid to say,
on an ordinary angst ridden day.
Counting our firsts
and worried about our lasts,
we try to slide something in
between a rock and a hard place.
Another crushing blow,
comes with a new crop of disappointments,
various rejections and put offs,
leaving picking up the pieces.
The monkey has the organ grinder
on the end of a short chain.
They came to a mutual agreement
as to who would hold the tin cup.
If only everything were that simple,
as citing a paragraph in print,
that explains the whole situation,
from its beginning to its end.
You stopped looking
though you never stop looking
to find nothing to look at
and it is all that kind of looking.
All those delicate matters
that bring silent disregard.
It always feels like an angel of death
has chanced to pass over us.
Tortured is what breaks the monotony,
so we seek the types we can tolerate.
Anything less than that would be boring
to the point of proving fatal.
I do not know you,
and I have no desire to change that.
We have been recognizing each other
for many years as to name and face.
It would make it all too difficult
if we knew anything more.
We would end up overwhelmed
in disliking all the little details
Night eventually wraps up the day,
covering over our various failings.
It is then that we can dare to dream
of dreaming, of something better.
-----------------------------------------
090815B
-----------
There is never anything as bitter
as chancing to think of a lover
that one would have wished to have had.
That type of thought reminds us
as to how fragile everything really is.
It is always about who was strong,
and who was weak,
when it comes to the final analysis.
The winning and losing are tacked on
as merely an afterthought.
In some ways everything shatters,
and we keep picking up the pieces,
even if it is only a matter of disposition,
while clearing away reminiscences
as if something precious broke and got spilt.
It always feels more and more cruel,
as time continues to pass,
the way sandpaper passes across a surface,
slowly wearing away at most of the details,
leaving a permanent indication of passage.
Perhaps that is what makes us
the smooth surfaces that we tend to become.
Trying to hide the remaining imperfections,
that never quite got rubbed away,
and could not be completely blended in.
------------------------------------------------
|
|