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Subject: Poems: 171017 - October 17th, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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171017A
------------
Genetics of attack,
targeting the unfortunate
for their failure
to be more concrete,
and brick solid
parts of the tumble down
edifice.
All that wanting
for something beautiful
and magnificent,
ending up shopping
at the dollar store,
used to be five and dime,
type of place.
We might as well be
playing at being statues
somewhere in the park.
Pigeon droppings
with internet postmarks,
sky written vapour trails
left by total strangers.
I had an idea to share,
but no one wanted any of it.
So it sat there and spoiled,
the way things go
when they are forgotten
in the refrigerator
for too many weeks.
Every one of us wants something,
that we keep looking for
yet never seem to ever find.
What we cannot give our selves
no matter how hard we try to,
leaving us looking
for a missing puzzle piece.
A river of possibilities
that forever seems to dry up
the moment we step into it,
worried about the flood
and getting carried away
in our own enthusiasm
to some broken destination.
If I had not seen her there,
knowing I would never see her again,
walking past the park,
I might never have written this,
but this is not about her,
or even about any of that,
and I have no idea who she was.
---------------------------------------
171017B
-----------
Forgotten in the jungle,
and still searching for civilization.
Trying to wipe off
all that monkey shit
that drops in on and down upon,
from various family trees
as to casual acquaintance,
and various miscellanies of others.
An inventory of names,
that one does not want to invoke,
mostly reduced to faceless,
under the memory rewrites,
of a life reformatted too many times
until there are more errors
than data storage,
and not much left for back up.
Waiting for the invitation
that never came,
as to getting in on it,
where we were supposed to meet
pretending to fall in love,
with everything so very perfect,
arrangements gaining new meanings
that were never offered before.
I could have dreamt it that way,
if I had obtained official permission.
Something that I could not get,
from anyone that I knew anything of.
Taking numbers and standing in lines,
waiting for the empty promises
that bureaucrats routinely dish out
to lonely hearts.
I made myself available,
waving my words around
the way other people wave their flags,
as if that meant that I could be found,
more easily by someone.
Even the rumours of their parties
reached me far too late,
and I do not know if you were there.
There was always that vague hope,
separating me from the moment.
A hope that you would walk in
through one of those open doors.
Our recognizing each other,
even though we had never met.
The seduction I always crave,
would follow after that.
Alarm clocks and passing seasons
have denied any sort of real hope.
I seem to be a perpetual cancellation
being kept waiting to happen.
Stuck in what seems to be an intermission
somewhere between shows.
An estranged curtain call,
between first and last acts.
I disappear in a crowd,
having been rendered transparent.
No one notices my passing,
and I seem to leave no wake behind.
Some of us have become ghosts
long before our time.
I probably frightened you away,
without intending to haunt you.
--------------------------------------
171017C
-----------
A desire to get away,
from one's self.
A sort of escape plan
that never really succeeds.
The tunnel caves in,
before it surfaces.
One keeps digging,
as if to find a treasure.
Trying to work miracles
to overcome discontent.
Keep hitting the walls
and never getting through.
There are invitations
that no one ever accepts.
Imagining of good times
that no one wants.
They all went away
from whatever it was about.
It becomes about craving
for doing different things,
with different people.
The sort of people
one always wanted to know
but never actually did.
Self recognition
is far from a unanimous verdict
as to what has gone wrong.
It is as if all the tools are there,
but all the material has disappeared
that they were meant to work on.
Devising another concept
assures absolutely nothing.
It tends to happen that way,
between idea and manifestation.
Needing a new creation
where the odds are improved.
Exactly when one is ready,
one is left waiting
outside the door.
There is no answer to that,
anymore than there is life
in a derelict ruin.
---------------------
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