The Poet

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Time

A lovely flower dies

another blooms to take its place

a newborn child screams at the world

the mask of death slips over an old person’s face

 

Nothing is forever

nothing is for sure

the old must make way for the new

and only so long will the new endure

 

Sometimes I wonder

sometimes I ask myself WHY

I don’t want my living to be just something I do

to pass time till I die

 

But time is something

no one can control

last night I went to sleep a young man

I awoke this morning much too old

 

from the book: Some Gentle Moving Thing

Echo of a sip from the Lethe

Ghost of my past selves

claw softly at the door of a

formless future into which I have drifted

and am lulled by a ludicrous reality

presented as truth

from Omni present media voices and visions

that delude me into flamboyant complaisance

while hijacking my synapse and infection them

with, “Thou shall,” and , “Thou shall not,”

as I fade away¬†fade away fade away fade awa….

Description of a murder on the prison rec yard one warm summer afternoon as seen through the eyes of poet #7145

INTRODUCTION:

Love is not dead here
it’s only in suspended animation
And every now and then (if you listen)
there’s a hopeful note, even among the cursing voices
of these crap shooters on the rec yard

Somebody’s go’na die today
‘Cause too many dreams are in the pot
and everybody ’round the circle is ready to die if necessary
’cause we’re all down to our last dreams

THE KILLING:

There’s a ballet
Three dancers
Two prancing in circles around one standing still, piercing him
sending him through a series of bazar upper torso movements
As spectators in box seats on stilts clutch high-powered rifles
and watch through binoculars

And it pisses me off ’cause the band has stopped practicing, to watch
And it should have been done to music!