VISIONS
(A Journey in Three Acts)

Act-1: The Leaving

To the land of my fathers I now must return:
You know, it’s not that I care to roam.
Leaving you here, by your wheel and your urn-
Leaving love, leaving life, leaving home…
Yet, as evening must follow the morn,
All those visions, once bright, are now gone;
And the dim light of dusk is now turning to dark,
Yet I know that I must carry on-
I must carry on…

Act-2: The Realisation

what where

hour to hour
day to day
on and on
we go
to where sometimes
where
isn’t where it
should be

not really lost
just haven’t found
what where is.

necrosis

seeking my own council
watching clock that only tics for me

writing the dirge to be sung by a silent voice
on my passing

lest I forget
I am not this flesh, these words, or the vow of chastity
I have broken again and again

freelance pedestal of light
illuminates a lost cause

while
perfection glances at its own
faults

counting them on fingers and toes
of amputated limbs
still warm
as necrosis sets in.

vcp

30 November 2010

day was a rasher of bacon
sizzling in too hot a skillet

judge said -- thirty days
next case

I was a greasy spot --
a turd on the tarmac

I felt like ashes.

love is a
a tree
that flowers in
the desert

if it bears no fruit,
its branches
turn to
inevitable dust--

to be blown on
whispering winds
of sadness and grief
so deep,

even angels weep.

gypsy read my palm one day --
. . . boy, you in biiiiiig trouble!

I know that --
tell me something I don't know

before other side comes --
you're going through a world of shit

sounds normal
anything else?

that'll be 20 bucks,

is this where the shit starts?

ground began to shake
gale force wind picked up

trees snapped
roofs came off
hail fell size of baseballs

birds flew south early
street lights wouldn't work
a beautiful darkness came down
gaping holes opened in the ground
out of which fires belched flame
orange glow was first light that night

there was a flood
river that flows through town was ten feet out of its banks
bedroom mattress floated into the living room

gas mains blew
windows broke

I had a hangnail, but I felt fine

people are odd
some give -- some take

perhaps more takers
than givers

a
debatable question?

givers are banks
always open

currency -- love
and care

those who make
withdrawals -- coming and going

don't often
make deposits

leave behind
in their wakes

destitution of
emptiness unwanted

ran out of currency
gave it all away

bank closed.

titularred tyrants
toadyishly taunting
tippler's tingles
tedious temperate timbres
tarrying timeless talisman's
tautological tariffs
try tarnishing tawdry
talkative tableau's
trudging
tallies -- tantamount
to tearful teetotaler's
tell.