301218A
-----------
Mid 1990s
catastrophe blues
on desolation row
beside the traffic stream.
A blue light goes on,
and push
the green button.
Could have been red,
and full stop.
Guessing game,
in our naively ignorant
conditional statements,
wayward sentiment,
so then we are off
into never never lands.
Flights of fancy,
reaching out to one star,
turns into the many
twinkle toed lights
of a yanked away heavens,
can wait,
in the sobbing dark
of a black hole night,
collapsed wave functions
slipping sliding away
into universal exhaustion,
wondering why
such irrational variables
chanced into irony:
diversions of media babble.
Never felt so alien
as that night,
and then slept dead sleep
for not sure how long,
ending startled
by the calendar,
spat up
back up through a rabbit hole
of rewound Memorex visions,
laced with carnival parades
of subconscious freaks,
old TV reruns,
peculiarly edited snips
of their Bardo Thodol
past lives.
When it was over,
as over
as anything ever is over,
knowing I had lost
touch,
and ended up disconnected,
from whatever I reached toward,
left to rationalizing
the ridiculous acceleration
past light speed,
back to someone's future
but not mine, and not even
in a million years,
of remembering what
a catastrophe is like.
-------------------------
301218B
-----------
Easy work,
for the coroners.
Science of simple and quick:
no exit papers required.
No application form
to complete.
No waiting.
I hear said
a lot of people leaving,
suddenly,
pushed to decide,
one way or the other
as to getting out
in quick and dirty ways.
Look the other way,
as the meat wagon passes,
flashing its red diodes,
of enlightenment,
making whooping noises.
The paramedics scraping up
what is left over.
Lost a few
that way.
The sort I wanted
to really care about,
but should not have,
because they were not mine
to interfere with.
That weird directive
of non interference,
feeling stranded
on alien planets
watching old episodes
of crazed inhabitants
moshing emotionally.
Possession
of any sort
is a strange thing.
They were all possessed
by someone,
or more officially something,
making them unavailable.
Handful of pills
and leave the tap running,
as the brain floods
and runs over,
into an oblivion
of never more,
never more, tears.
----------------------
301218C
-----------
When you feel so alone
that you feel you lost
at every game
that you ever tried to play,
lost on playing every hand
fate ever dealt to you.
Got that life time bench penalty
with no idea how it happened
that you got so roughed up
and beaten out.
So alone
with your empty mailbox,
you give spambots pet names,
without getting to know,
beyond those solicitations
that are feeling you up
to see what you have going
in a soft touch purse or wallet.
Same as most anyone else,
as nameless and faceless.
Everywhere you went,
you were too generous,
and not generous enough,
leaving you cleaved in two,
and barely getting out alive,
completely alone,
after a few convulsions,
pushed nearer to rigor mortis
than you can talk about
without hard evidence.
It is the way it goes,
and when you need something
the friendly disappear,
into their millions of excuses
ignoring your questions
as too poorly phrased.
Ask and ye shall,
be pissed on,
if you let them
get that close.
You are reduced down
to what they can get out of you,
by sticking you for it.
They put nothing in,
past tripping you up
to fall for something unreal.
They call that values,
and make you feel so alone
you feel like donkey meat,
being torn apart by their dogs.
-------------------------------------
301218D
-----------
Where to begin
when you are back to nothing,
other than being history.
Knowing everything strong
is gradually beaten to soft
by the hard weather.
White sugar snow
licks of wind chill
lap up the barren land.
Tied to your swivel chair,
trying to push the worms away,
as they attempt another approach.
Stone faced mourning
of that litany of losses,
as offers no hope of mitigation.
You offer yourself for dissection,
so that they can find it in you,
but they shake their heads: no.
Your meeting was cancelled,
and someone is mopping you up,
scrubbing away your footprints.
You count days and dollars
the way prisoners draw lines
on the overwritten walls.
------------------------------
301218E
-----------
Imagination is the curse,
in its creating worlds
that one would want to live in.
That worst of tormentors,
relentless torturer,
with its ingenious devices.
Leaves a spent shell of being
emptied of its meagre powder,
and fallen short of any target.
Might have thought to save it,
to blow out those brains
that keep imagining a life.
--------------------------------
All the suicides I have known, and other similar stories.
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