Poems: 080721 - July 8th, 2021

[Robert Morpheal]

260621A

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Whatever it was 

it was just a dream 

that you won't be living 

this time around. 

The only time around

but you can dream 

your next time around

will be different. 

We go in circles 

until they get broken 

and then we circle 

around the remains. 

The big wheels 

keep us turning 

dragged us along 

their circles. 

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070721A

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It isn't as it used to be

but then again 

it never really was. 

If there was a body 

it was decomposed 

in a forest of lies. 

The animals came 

and picked at the bones 

pretending high finance. 

Friday night spirits 

in frequented haunts 

practising going numb. 

Touched is a condition

no one wants to suffer

fearing touch and go. 

Could linger that way

for a long time 

trying to be useful. 

Passing the time 

in that endless line ups

at invisible doors. 

Never quite believing 

nothing opened up 

for the likes of you. 

No one wants that rot 

and says right on the label 

it is the wrong type. 

You could have been helped

by orthodontists 

and plastic surgeons. 

If you had ever known 

awakening to the alarm 

sounding in a deaf aid. 

It is good to remember 

things about famous people

and forget everyone else. 

Inflated childhood confidence 

becomes burst balloons 

of adult realities. 

Falling like a stone 

we never really were 

anything they said we were.

Shaken out of our tree 

and sent down the line 

to pressed and bottled. 

It ends at corked 

or perished 

in the continual ferment. 

The bottled up

rank almost as highly now

as do dead soldiers. 

All those pretty things 

life seemed to promise

end up too expensive. 

Your personal puzzles 

that can all be solved

if you have the money. 

Time is of the essence

but you cannot speed up

what you don't control. 

The whole mess redefined

as a process of growth

and hoping it is benign. 

Going from Teddy Bears

to Ted talks 

as the same run aways. 

We went on like that 

because we had to believe

in something. 

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080721A

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At the end of love 

we are all on one way streets

going in different directions

and it never works out. 

Works out

means only some gym rat 

in perpetual pointless motion

headed for a cold shower. 

If that is too extreme 

you can hide away somewhere

in any world of dead others

and continue to dream. 

You know she won't be there

but you keep going back 

night after night looking 

for what you never had. 

It is never really as if

you can really join anything 

that you wanted to join 

as if belonging elsewhere. 

You weren't the chosen 

but they made you believe 

that you still had a chance 

until you ran out of something.

It might be time or money

and it might be both

and then some more than that

that you ran out of. 

When you start to look 

at both sugar and salt 

being something dangerous

that lurks around at funerals. 

Never bothering to learn 

what a portion really is 

you try to tease and tantalize

your inner zombie. 

Something is eating your brain

and you neither remember 

nor are you remembered 

by anyone of significance. 

You were already buried

by friends you used to have 

and get sent on expeditions

exploring to try to find some. 

Knowing that you really should

throw it all out again 

and get everything new 

before anyone pays attention. 

Those days are all over 

and you have to run around

all over the social map 

trying to place yourself there. 

Your social diary 

reads like a Grimoire

containing all your demons

with no forwarding addresses. 

The words you used to use

have been robbed of meaning

and everything is as empty

as a stack of promissory notes. 

You can keep working at it

but it is not what you wanted 

to ever really have to do

as part of being disposed of. 

They do not let you near 

anything that you could be 

and could be passionate about

beyond some nostalgia. 

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080721B

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We are the disconnects 

from someone's crowd scene

full of extras 

that no one really wants. 

Going among gatherings 

being segregated and relegated

to those other subjects 

we don't want to talk about. 

Membership is an annual fee

that gives you a place on a list

of strangers' names and numbers

for administrative purposes. 

Eventually taking hints 

that we should not go anymore

and it isn't there for us 

the way we hoped it would be. 

We used to read all about it 

as to the openings 

advertised in the newspapers 

before the stampedes started. 

Now we are the trampled 

every time the herd makes a move

toward a slaughterhouse gate

where nothing comes out of it. 

Consider it lucky 

not being able 

to go all the way 

to being written off. 

We were buffaloed 

with empty sunshine promises 

hardly noticing the gold rush

never panned out. 

It was another Titanic mission

being tossed overboard 

at a usual sinking 

into wave pool seas. 

Interference patterns 

rippling across the brain 

as it tries to avoid pursuit 

by one or another Terminator. 

We invested in ourselves 

finding new ways to bankruptcy 

because everything we came to

was another sort of insider trade. 

We of the outer party 

never really got to know 

any of those of the inner party

and thus were never invited. 

Once you learn to drown yourself

the process is easier to take

trying to build your own lifeboats

from remnants of old anchors. 

Cut yourself loose 

from your shores 

but never go adrift 

into strange vague ideas. 

No point in coming home 

to someone you don't like 

and don't want to know 

so you live in isolation. 

As if you have a disease 

that someone else could catch

if they come too close 

lacking protective equipment. 

You go street side bubble 

through a foreign crowd

trying to avoid the stench

sex and death makes. 

Entire conversations occur 

that are built on those facts 

but only with the same people 

that you don't want to talk to. 

Your telescopic eyes 

are speaking volumes 

about being pinned down 

under enemy fire. 

You almost made it in

but failed to get out 

before the shit house blew

wrecking your memories. 

What to do next 

is the persistent dilemma 

and no one accountable 

to actually tell you that. 

So you roll yourself over

checking for vital signs 

as broken as a thunderstorm

on another aching day. 

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080721C

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It is the many 

that always deny the one

as if you can make love

with a crowd. 

Whatever it is 

that making love means 

to any of the sick 

or any of the healthy. 

Those who keep secrets 

are far too few 

and the others tied up  

with ropes and hair. 

They thought they were free

when they got permission

for shopping on Sundays 

between hot dogs and ice creams. 

Was headed out that way

but the way was closed 

by the tally man 

tallying up the accidents. 

The list of players 

taken off the playing board 

and then there are those

that get bumped off. 

It was a sort of blessing 

for which no one gives thanks

being sometimes given 

to the select few. 

No one really wants 

to ever go that high 

or to fall that low 

from a picnic basket. 

Sometimes I reminisce 

about the great picnics

of long ago yesterday 

and no more. 

Birthday balloons 

signalled to other planets 

as they disappeared 

past birds and airplanes. 

We sent out ships

that were never to return 

from unknown ports 

charting our future routes. 

They were as lost 

as we were to become 

in tangles of sentences 

trying to find meaning. 

I am still prone to wander

the tragic landscapes 

that reflect all the seasons 

of so many desires. 

It all goes past 

in that distance that comes

between forgotten names 

and a momentary notice. 

It is the secret meaning 

of those who were asked 

and those who were not 

on any of the guest lists. 

It all belonged to those

of the secret handshakes 

and it largely still does 

to those who belong. 

I never really belonged 

and I guess I never shall 

really belong anywhere 

after the try outs ended. 

I do not even go out 

to where talent scouts go 

because I don't play 

that sort of game. 

I know they are recruiting

pleasure machines 

for various boudoirs 

and bedrooms. 

I keep going over 

all of every left field 

where I might have lost

what I might have needed. 

That is not what I wanted

and I keep rejecting 

all of their programming 

in an effort to be free. 

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