April 18, 2017
Walking, mostly neat in clockwork close meter,
Warmer ghosts from my former features;
All the roles, All the resume’,
Falling in line, Just the crew to rescue me.
Faded as sad old soldiers, parted.
(Vain fantasies say old glories stay guarded)
Again, always, They had heaved it all in a heavy chest.
Again, always, they had heaved in their chest
Taking it to heart & head.
I’ll call it for you my own VFW
hall. I have my own tall tales to tell,
We’ll share lies, & libations.
I’ll wear my mightier pen.
I’ll share sham wisdom wide open.
But first, false memories in verse.
& what’s worst, I’ll con, & confide open.
“I’m ready to go anywhere/ I’m ready for to fade/ Into my own parade”
—————-Dylan (the troubadour one), from “Mr. Tambourine Man”
“Every hero becomes a bore, at last.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson
. (5 yrs back)
February 4, 2017
“May our miracles
…Not be cruel.”
I tipped my head up,
Away from my novel.
From some televangelistic
Noise at the end of Pop’s assisted-living room.
The old & Southern bible guy
Was odd about numbers, too.
Not magic mathematics about chapters & verse,
But worse, what words add up to,
& seven is this
& five is that.
His numbers were different from mine.
Maybe, I was getting it wrong.
The old & Southern crowd was all nodding.
It takes a stadium.
Tho’ mostly sure that’s it.
(7 yrs back)