7 am I awoke with the cruel sun in my eyes Unaware Tired.
And you You in the kitchen with your burned eggs and coffee You in the gray print headache fog of the morning news You with your over easy pessimism And half veiled mockery
By Sunday evening everything will be black again And I'll be running Running in these tired old shoes that hurt my feet Running from the neighbors dog that I throw rocks at when no one is looking Running from the memory of your throw pillow philosophy Running from spray on hair and insomnia Running
So I got up Got down the bottle of Old Crow Got down Got a fresh pack of cigarettes off the shelf And let my excess blanket me
10pm Driving in my big black gas guzzling goliath car Driving down this old gravel road Driving with this warm beer between my legs Driving towards nowhere
But nowhere always seems to lead you somewhere Sometimes wonderful, sometimes horrible Sometimes someplace you had ignored Or forgotten
Always something to make you turn Turn around, Turn back, Turn away Turn the car towards the edge Turn in the broken leaves and scattered grass and head home
Maybe we could have been a little kinder Maybe I should have got home a little earlier Maybe you could have left the lights on Maybe I should have hidden your blue-steeled destiny Maybe I could have taken it’s machined gaze instead Maybe I should
Maybe
Cycles
Quiet pool Still and cool bathed in the golden light of morning and he rises from green meadows
Gentle breeze upon the grass Silvery light too soft to last caressing blue daffodils in violet haze and he lays his head in shadow
Rueful daybreak in smokey gloom Single minded destiny and another's doom pestilent greed, the pool is black and he fills the skies with thunder
A hot white flash of progress Then in the slow decay, the regress the hopes of a generation are washed to the sea one age gives way to another
Quiet pool Still and cool bathed in the golden light of morning she comes alive and cries to stand
and in her dreams of abalone she hears the songs of days far gone and reads the words of a dying hope that she'll take an age to understand
RNC
Morning the dust of yesterday still fills my nostrils
I'll never wake up in a good mood again never eyes closed peacefully in the afternoon sun but blanched white and anxious
(somewhere in the distance a marching band plays)
eyeless we march blissfully groaning, humping walking to the cadence of an animal law into the maw a back alley of monsters a siege of construction netting and Vespa scooters & the boys in blue
gun in one hand dick in the other
the tomb is spreading herself wide and the monsters are smearing our faces a lip trembling taste of the dulling hum
we feed we vomit we feed again lusting the taste & decrying the substance but desperate in our attempt to swallow and survive exhausted fear chuckles sanctimoniously down the line
Look at the vampires Here they come With thrills and grins and girls and guns How they gesture, oh what fun! Hollow eyes for everyone
(c) 2009 all rights reserved Jerome Triplett, bostonpoet.com
