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Subject: Poems: 131117 - November 13th, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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131117A
-----------
Displacement,
and the irreplaceable
that gets threatened.
It all comes down to
within an inch of your life
pushed up against it.
Discontinuities,
the jagged saw toothed
roughly cutting off.
Crude amputations
of future prospects
carved down to the bones.
Civil war visions
on desolate landscapes
strewn with the discarded.
Stripped of rank insignia,
medals, and any options.
Left out to spoil,
the way meat goes rotten.
Trying to build it up,
only to see it run over,
bulldozed
heaps of rubble.
Those plans you made
terminated at first light.
-----------------------------
131117B
-----------
No idea how to answer that.
Do not have anyone,
and no one's name comes up
in broken threads of memory,
forming that string ball tangle
of nothing personal.
Those teased away threads
that then never unravel,
being knotted up tight,
in failing to come together.
The pit of the stomach
fear of emptiness.
Do not know anyone
in that sort of particular way
as you keep suggesting.
There is no one designated
to filling that particular role,
and no idea who really would.
It is all too mixed up now,
and far too forgotten,
to matter to anyone else.
Would never make any difference
to their self involvements,
and how they pass their time.
Was not there for that,
never having heard about it.
No, we never actually met,
and I do not know what happened.
It all gets turned around
into what it never actually was.
Makes one reluctant,
to take any similar risks,
failing to see any reflections
in the mirrors of their eyes.
Vintage souls nowadays valued
less than dime a dozen.
Whatever they wanted,
I am sure I never found any.
Does not matter what it was
that I actually chanced into.
No, the invite never came to me
via fax or regular mail.
No, I never got that reply,
from anyone.
No one ever asked me,
so I had no chance to say.
No, I have no idea
who made the arrangements.
-----------------------------------
131117C
-----------
Trouble with dreams
is you cannot ever really dream,
making your own dreams,
much less making come true
what you want to dream.
That would be too much freedom,
and there are the unwritten laws
forbidding that sort of thing.
Not to even begin to mention
it could become habit forming.
Connections such as that
could begin to deform other lives,
into various coincidences.
Strangers might end up disturbed
as to what you dreamt about them.
You might meet on street corners
chancing to recognize each other,
remembering a dream,
of being naked in bed,
tangled up in one another's fantasies.
Charges might then be laid,
as to dangerous dreaming.
Dreaming without a license,
and other similar crimes
as to various unspeakable acts.
It was some years ago
that they made it into a commodity,
that they could market for sale.
The poor were given dream stamps,
redeemable at local dream markets.
A lot of controversy existing
about allowing the poor to dream.
A question concerning entitlement,
versus the arguments of the wealthy
that said dreams must be earned.
Crackdowns on the black market
sale of dreams at inflated prices.
The illegal dream trade
having begun to flourish,
catering to those who could afford.
-------------------------------------------
131117D
-----------
If there is a new insecurity
to be discovered,
I must have found it somewhere.
Such things can be catalogued,
to assure finding them,
after you have put them away.
Collect the whole set,
and receive a special free gift,
on our limited time offer.
Mark it fragile,
handle with care,
so it gets tossed around.
The clearer the markings are,
the more damages
that you can expect to incur.
Worst of my suspicions
always proving absolutely true,
in direct contrast.
Try to make a new start at it,
and end up in the same old mess,
bogged down under fire.
Costs keep escalating,
long past any profit margins,
too late to cut the losses.
Attempts to secure position
having faltered,
feeling shot full of holes.
An overwhelming silence
that nothing seems to penetrate,
feels like the coffin again.
-------------------------------
131117E
-----------
Some things end for the best,
and some things don't
end well at all.
The ending is the same
in any instance,
because an ending is an end
all the very same as an end.
Mourners are the worst people
to start anything up with,
in relation to their often need
to kill something,
in perfect retaliation
for whatever they believe lost
with someone else.
Don't try to be rational,
as to any explanations,
in a non compliant universe
that constantly defies logic
in sudden outbursts
of lust and destruction,
formulating its dust clouds.
They usually prefer to kill
the old and the weak,
as if that preserves the young,
in relative terms,
measured up
to some imagined standard,
serving group identity.
Science can be performed,
to generate statistical deviations,
defining predictable norms.
If that in any way helps
to alleviate the situation,
rendering it entirely impersonal,
and merely subject of study.
It can get uglier than that,
if you fail to drop and roll,
playing dead quickly enough,
when the loop comes back
to where it began before,
having played out
what very little it knows.
Do not expect much,
because you will get less than that
every new time around the circuit.
No points from past games,
and everyone seems intent
on scoring against you
in rare instances where you get to play.
-----------------------------------------------
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