I had a poem for you today. It was quite fantastic, if I do say, but wordpress editor doesn’t seem to like the way I use to do things in order to get the most basic look I wanted. You know the simple layout I always use. So, sorry to say, I don’t have a poem for you today.
I like to put words to images. To make noise is to vibrate is to create A family crossing the street I assign their thoughts to my head accent on the usual. within my vacuum footsteps fall silently. Shadows burst into fantasy. Black and White become bullet casings and spattered targets. Lifting the truth like a burden or maybe the bumblebee coming to rest on the sacred. Resistance lives in all things, carves a night in your chest where it hangs a sign and leaves a broom. Real courage is found in the not resisting resistance. Traffic sounds are no longer buried in the trees
brambles of branches tumbleweed through thin winter air.
varicose skies wonder why
mental vibration strung up a cataclysm of moth balls like bricks through your window
It’s here in these early morning nighttime silences under shadows of abandoned office buildings— solitary light in the window, computer screens waiting to be wakened; in the silent shudders of trees and passing cyclists; here in the promise of the day that we must come to terms with the howling cries of death and hunger.
And I have seen a future of abandoned corporate office parks. I have seen parking lots deserted save for staggered cars parked with windows busted and garbage bag taped over. It is there that I have seen a future wherein the word hope has been replaced by neighbor. Longing, by community.
Where the sun-rise from the west behind thread-bare quilted blanket lies the bosom of a new day.
Last chance to view my poem Morning Commute live at Prometheus Dreaming. Thanks to David van den Berg for giving me the chance
From the website…
Prometheus Dreaming is an online cultural journal dedicated to those things that make his sacrifice worthwhile. The depths of the soul. The oddities of life. Those things that live at the boundaries of human experience, and the downright weird. This is the place for the knowledge of dreams and the terror of the dark.
We are dedicated to publishing both established and aspiring writers. We believe in encouraging creativity in all forms, and strive to create an artistic community built on inclusion and mutual support.
Hope pervades in all things. There is hope that things will work out the way we want, hope that things will be different. There is hope in the satiating of addiction and hope that the cravings will end.
Sometime overnight a black van parked on the side of the road outside of work.
With the hood up they stumble in and out of the side door. A vacuum of silence howling from within. They sit in the front seats under phone glow and frosted windows.
Before the morning’s light a man scrambles under and around the front bumper, back and forth, then back into the van. A battery charger lies on the ground under the van. Inside the cab of the van a lighter flickers.
In a few days time you’ll show up for work and the van is gone, in its place scattered needles and trash. Off to continue the search.
—If hope is an ever available commodity, why then is it so valued?