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Date: Mon, 21 Mar 2016 12:48:29 -0700 (PDT)
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Subject: Poems: 210316 - March 21st, 2016
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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120316A
------------
Fugitives from tag,
trying to scrabble out
of the word salad.
The manipulations of our tongues,
adding to the embarrassments
as to all of the who, what, where and when.
Those lines never quite our own,
and in some mysterious way prescribed
as if they can cure us of the illness.
We continue our investigations,
in an unending quest for clues,
as to who ruined all those dreams.
The chalk marked remains,
of more lessons to be learned,
until we want to fly out of windows.
The sky appearing to close in,
making us crave slipping away
between heaven and pavement.
That excessively narrow gap
with hardly anywhere to slide through
so as to deliver a message.
We were taken prisoner
having been caught in the act
of trying to find whatever it was.
It is harder and harder to imagine
what it is like to get away,
and there is more that cannot be said.
---------------------------------------------
120316B
-----------
Every savior
that we ever believed in
always let us down.
Belief is always under scrutiny,
and certain to be severely tested
by extremes of abandonment.
Playing on those primal feelings
that every child has learned to feel,
as to every sort of dependency.
Always in the process of leaving,
that begins with any arrival,
intending to frighten away.
I have long ago lost touch,
gone out of contact,
with prime time and select.
Some claim that makes me a savage,
having left their civilization
to become a recluse hiding in a cave.
No matter what I channeled,
everything turned out the same,
and never the way I wanted it to.
Another broken button
that got too pushed,
until all connection failed.
The tiny vibrations
of an insect
in the experience of being loved.
Impaled on a pin,
and held under close scrutiny,
as a continual subject of interest.
Slowly breaking down
into tinier and tinier shards,
the way everything comes apart.
Reminded by ink on paper,
that we can read into anything
no matter how meaningless.
Everything comes apart,
somewhere, sometime,
sooner or later.
------------------
120316C
-----------
Here one can only make requests
that they love to decline.
I made the mistake of asking for you.
Everything else follows from that,
and it is only the usual matter
of filling in particular details.
I feel as though I am a spring lamb,
survival of winter,
about to become the usual slaughter,
of a feeling, or a wish,
in a typical repetition of the same ritual
that there is never any way to avoid.
March comes as the month of wanting,
and wanting becomes wanting to weep,
for some of what wishing has done to us,
making us persistently so vulnerable
to every form of everything contrary,
dictating what must make us happy.
Such extremes of emphasis
as to the cutting off and sewing together
into rag dolls and scarecrows,
made of the most mismatched pieces
of grossly manipulated destinies
commanded to their pretense at freedom.
-------------------------------------------------
120316D
-----------
Only Hollywood stars and starlets
get to play at those dream romances.
Everyone else gets to jump at the bait,
and some chance to end on the hook
usually counting themselves lucky
if they did did not have to jump too high
and were not coerced to go too far.
Only if they let go of all of their dreams.
The nature of the trap, and the real scandal
as to both domestic and foreign relations.
We are told about what lands on the hook
having found nothing but another way of dying.
Another way to get conscripted
into that same endless dirty little war,
that no one every really wins,
that no one has any way to avoid.
An all for nothing stellar collapse
into the common darkness that pulls it all in
and swallows it all up into the emptiness
of the futility of vicious cycles.
----------------------------------------------------
210316A
------------
They always laugh at all the knocking
on the rows of doors that failed to open,
where no one ever let you in.
Emphasis on keeping it to random chance,
because gambling is always bigger than big,
and as long as it is not a persistence of choice.
It always seems such a long way down
from standing on the edge of nowhere.
Everything reduced to falling in.
You begin to realize the bitter truth,
as to it never having been anything you thought
and even less as to anything you wanted.
It becomes all about learning to play the game,
but never the game you wanted to play,
and definitely not for any prize you wanted to claim.
Eventually you cannot discern anything true
about what is winning and what is losing,
because it all begins to feel entirely the same.
If only something had come true,
without being pinned down in another struggle,
while trying to get up again to the surface.
The same process perpetually repeated
as to a fish trying to move across dry ground,
expressing its desire to achieve flight.
----------------------------------------------
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