191017A
------------
Wanting to fix up
what cannot be fixed up.
Everything at the wrong time,
and in the wrong place.
It only leads to more confusion,
and countless delays.
It seemed a perfect heading,
but it was all out of the blue.
It can never come across
in any way that it was meant.
A litany of sinking feelings
and nothing to confess.
Whatever is put together,
comes apart much faster.
Might as well let it all unravel,
into meaningless knots.
Strings being nothing more
than what chances to get cut.
It seems as though it was a plan,
but not in the cards anymore.
Someone shuffled the deck,
losing all the aces on the floor.
Seems there is no hand to play,
but the stakes are going higher.
No way to know the meaning
of what any of it is about.
Whatever you read into it
is on the wrong side of the line.
You turn it over
and you pronounce it dead.
---------------------------------
191017B
------------
There were no invitations,
within the margins of the acceptable.
Starting over
is only another way to be left out.
It is likely to feel too contrived,
regardless of any other implications.
There is more to fear
amid what never actually happens.
Postmortem consequences
playing on the average mind.
Many tend to dwell there,
never overcoming the paralysis.
It never really matters what it is,
when it comes down to no one wants it.
Markets can be cruel in that way,
as dictatorships of value.
My offerings proving too poor,
to place on your altar.
There are countless legions
who all have far more to give.
The fact we never went for coffee,
formed a memorandum of understanding.
The peace treaty being negotiated
after a definite line being drawn.
You wanted me to fail,
and that left me with no argument.
No way to launch a protest
against the unexpected attack.
That is the way that it mostly goes,
in the rare instances when something goes.
The sort of sordid little things
that are unfit for inclusion in memoirs.
----------------------------------------------
201017A
------------
A Scotch and Red Bull moment,
pulling you down and taking you up
in the same in and out breath.
That is the way life crashes
thundering across a sharp toothed edge
of pounded on shores of perception,
echoed in frustrated dance moves.
Our personal shipwrecks dot the horizons,
having been lured by stray beacons
issuing from pretentious lighthouses.
Our being tossed onto the rocks,
after being variously shaken up.
Our raising a spy glass in question
as to how much of life is punitive damages.
We are not even as big as grains of sand
on the far out edge of a universe,
and yet we give such large importance
to one or another reflection in the eyes,
losing our ability to conduct investigations.
Sometimes it seems better to surrender
rather than seeking to know anything.
Whatever ground one chances to take
eventually caves under pressure,
reminding us that nothing stands forever.
Not even the monuments that are erected
as phallic symbols with political faces.
The more that chances to be written,
the more exceptional desire has to become.
There is far more production in the world,
being conducted with a minimum of passion.
If anything new appears to try to surface
it is lost in a sea of routine repetition.
The tendency to discard
anything that violates the usual arrangements
of precisely catalogued elements.
That competes with being forgotten,
for having uttered a few displeasing notes
that pissed off the editorial board.
Sometimes it seems the same as to anything
incurring penalty points,
and no way to even up the score,
but it all serves as a loose motivation.
Finding something packed into a jar,
there is the immediate urge to shake it up.
See what might tumble out,
that might prove to be more appealing.
The irony of wanting to set things free
that one wants to have for one's self.
Knowing that freedom is a binding condition.
Constant streams of widely accepted propaganda
seek to force us to deny any meaningful truths,
as to the fragmented and the whole.
Each little grain of sand is a make believe
that it is in fact rock solid.
That is how the fashion has been changed,
even if the designers deny any knowledge of it.
There is more that is severely abrasive now,
than there was before the break down into order.
People tend to rub against each other more
but in all the wrong ways.
It is meant to wear something out,
until it is smooth as a salesman might be,
convincingly peddling sweet nothings.
There are a few of us
largely kept out of touch with each other,
who want something more than that.
More than what was on the requisition,
and back ordered as still out of stock.
More than the necessary permits
would permit us to dream.
--------------------------------
|
|