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Date: Fri, 16 Sep 2016 10:58:43 -0700 (PDT)
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Subject: Poems: 160916 - September 16th, 2016
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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160816A
------------
People dissecting themselves
in their search for answers.
Trying to read indications
from the ghosts of dead stars.
Checking the wind direction
to see which way to go.
Their secrecy is all blown,
leaving them all completely exposed.
No one really wants an open book,
when they look to settle down
somewhere between their covers
after painting the town.
Nearly everyone keeps talking,
but no one stops to respond.
Everything is filled in with sound
the endless debate never resolves
as litanies are repeated
pertaining to who did what to whom.
Some call it celebration
others consider it more despair.
A preview of the coffin,
feeling sick in the morning,
all inside out again.
Everything ends up broken,
becoming that only rule,
that without exceptions
builds its common reputation
in the only acceptable way.
---------------------------------
160916A
------------
I feel certain about anyone I miss,
that I ever missed,
that those I ever missed
never really missed me at all,
knowing that I miss too much,
of everything I miss,
which is too much for anyone
to ever chance to miss.
That they do not ever miss me
and never ever would,
in all that missing out,
amid all their hits and misses,
always missing something more
than all that they are missing,
missing out,
and being missing listed
from all of their little affairs,
discussions as to the missing,
as to all of the why and where,
I am missing in their actions,
missing from their lists,
one of the most missing listed
that they did not count in,
did not count on,
as anything more
than more of that missing out,
and never missed by anyone
I ever really missed,
and never missed at all.
----------------------------
160916B
-----------
All those little mercies
that I bestow
in letting them all go,
and getting them gone from me.
Never mind what I wanted.
Never mind what I would have,
and never mind what I planned.
It makes no difference to them.
No reason to believe
in being thought of,
when I am gone
from those empty mirrors.
I was never good at reflecting,
the sort of image
that they could recognize
as something of themselves.
Scratched from the memory lists,
as to what they see as champions,
as to what they see as knaves,
having no footnotes to the name.
No invitations coming in the mail,
to any of those rumored parties,
where anyone who is anyone
is always known to go.
Nothing to meet up with
while hanging around,
waiting for discovery,
with nothing left to say.
All those false starts,
and fractured beginnings
that never really heal.
Throw those bones again.
A person of interest
to the wrong people.
Never really connected
with any dreams come true.
Waiting for a number,
trying to find a line,
standing around waiting
and nothing left to say.
----------------------------
160916C
------------
They have raised the price of love
far too high to ever pay.
It is impossible now to ever make
the price of love that they expect
having to be paid.
The price of love goes ever higher
no matter how many reminders are erased
there are reminders of reminders
and they never let you ever forget
making the price of love too high to pay.
You were sent to collections
by all the ghosts of love,
as to every slightest thought of love,
to pay the price of love,
that you can never afford to pay.
Never love anyone
unless you can afford to pay
the price of love
that you can never afford to pay
The price of love rises every day.
They raise the price of love every day,
and it was sky high yesterday,
that price of love keeps rising,
far beyond what you can afford to pay,
the price of love gets higher every day.
-----------------------------------------------
160916D
-----------
Cabbage head,
stuffed head,
head crammed with straws,
as if you can pull another miracle
from those empty fields.
Groping for options
in those hollow places
somewhere in the pitched dark,
and never allowed to count
on any stars above.
Navigation instruments
have proven misguided,
but some still believe
in the needle and the dial
messaging them in the night.
No idea anymore
as to anything being on target,
counting the bodies
greeting the pavement:
another turn for the worse.
Names to faces
has lost any of its meaning,
it doesn’t really matter
who shuffles or who deals
when it call comes down.
We didn’t win anything.
All the entries disqualified.
The secret rules on the wrapper
prevented the winning
of any prize.
The strength to dream
is the next thing they take away,
after they have broken down
all of your resistance,
to pretending at living life.
--------------------------------
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