Memory Lane

The strange road of memory

twists through the landscape

of my mind this morning.

Switchbacks and sharp turns of

remembrances stinging my eyes

as I try to focus on the road ahead.

Memories like snowflakes falling

on the windshield; I bat them

away with a quick flip of the wipers,

but they continue to pile on the window

and It’s hard to see the pavement.

The memory roads intersecting with

the present, making me want to hit the

brakes, stop everything and get out

of the car. To walk in the cold along

the edge of the road, remembering.

Remembering that time when I wasn’t

sure what was reality, remembering that time

I was terrified, that time I wept, that time

I made a fool of myself, that time I was filled

with unjustified hate, that time I was broken hearted.

I don’t stop the car on the road.

I have to keep going.

The present is demanding and cannot afford

any standing on the roadway. The present

does not abide any traffic jams of memory.

The morning memories, a sad grimace across

my face as I pass the other cars on the road,

those other drivers, faces focused on their own roads

ahead; breaking and accelerating with each

twitch of thought.

My mind struggling to look forward, past the

curious sadness that patrols the edges of my

travel.  A memory State Trooper waiting with

a radar gun to pull me over and charge me with

wallowing in the past.

Just drive. Just drive faster.

Blurt

Blurt.

That’s what I’m calling

today’s piece.

Blurt.

Because there’s so much

to say in a rapid ravenous

rapacious way, that the only

way to say it is to blurt it out.

I’ve been unable to write as

of late, due to life and it’s

annoying trappings and the words

inside have been building and

piling up against the sea walls.

The levy is breaking and the

flood is coming. The flood known

as: Blurt.

So here, we, go…

Yellow foxes with orange

hair slyly stealing hens from the

coop; smiling audaciously, and

without regret, diving head first in

deniability.

Delicate fingers, absently twisting her long

hair into a tight coil as she reads a

fashion magazine. She’s lovely and

we’re on an airplane and I can’t say anything

to her because, we’re on an airplane, and to

talk to a stranger about how lovely they are on

an airplane is taboo, and just not done.

It’s creepy in fact. And knowing it makes it

all the worse.

The conversations I overhear are so boring.

Doesn’t anyone have anything interesting to

talk about? “My dog did this,” “my brother bought that,”

“I’ve got a growth on my,” “there’s no money in wells,”

“a new hairbrush makes all the difference.”

What? What the hell are you all talking about?

Stop it. It’s causing me to have a word back-up.

A whole week worth or more,

of pent up words, all scrambling to

find a place on this page. Cluttered

and clamoring for release into some

ill-formed stanza with inconsistent

cadence.

Words blurting out in hundreds of voices,

begging for release, for their little

taste of joyful freedom smeared

like jam on toast all over this nice

white page.

All this blurting, essentially amounting

to nothing more than a sort of self

medicating release. A salve to soothe

the ache a word back-up can cause in

the gullet.

Blurt! Blurt! Blurt! These words,

all rushing to the tips of my fingers,

to ejaculate all over the page in a

gross orgasm of language, jumbled

into a meaningless squiggling mess.

And then apologizing after. Because,

I blurted too soon.

She doesn’t get to blurt. I don’t know

why she won’t blurt.  Probably because

my blurting is too selfish to allow additional

blurts.

I really did blurt all over this page.

Please excuse the mess. A flood after

such a massive backlog can really be

quite messy.

I’ll get a mop.

And a bucket.

You know the thing about buckets is…

Blurt!

Too Cold for A Long Title

                A cloud of human vapor plumed above the commuter crowd. It hung in the frigid air like some abstract art installation.  Winter had arrived and it was the foremost thought on everyone’s mind. It was damn cold. The commuters shuffled on their cold feet, trying to move the warmth around their bundled bodies.  They clapped their gloved hands and rubbed their own coated arms. It was to no avail. The freeze burrowed through all their bundled layers.

“Damn cold,” said one commuter as they sniffed.
“Ymp,” came the scarfed and muffled reply.

The commuters waiting for the bus were wrapped in heavy scarves and wool caps, thick winter mittens or gloves, thick burly coats and in some cases snow pants draped down over big winter boots. They were a group of five people, unidentifiable as male, female or other through their winter wrappings. They all seemed to be swaying in the morning cold; instinctively hoping their movement would shield them from the bitter negative degree temperatures.  

“Where’s the damn bus,” complained a thickly bundled commuter.

“This is bull,” said another.

“Freaking winter man. Why do we live here,” asked another.

“For the summers,” responded the original complainer.

The crowd of cold commuters laughed in thick white clouds that rose steadily over their woolen heads. They all peered down the gray street, thick with road salt and piles of frozen snow, looking for the bus. The bus was running late. The world seemed to be running late. It was as if the freezing cold had somehow managed to slow time. The normal wait time for the bus was now an agonizing torment for the commuters. They had no choice but to wait in the blistering, blowing freeze.

“I’m buying a car next year,” said one commuter, “then we can all ride together.”

“That would be nice, but you said that last year,” was the reply.

“Well, this year for sure. I mean it,” said the commuter.

The shivering crowd moved closer together as the winter wind howled around them. The bus appeared down the street. It was moving slowly towards the commuter-icicles and they began to nod at one another. The bus pulled up to the stop and the doors opened. The five commuters lined up as they do every morning and boarded. The doors closed and the bus began to pull away.

I sipped my hot coffee at my apartment window. I pulled my cardigan sweater a little closer over my chest and continued to watch the frozen world work.     

Stop the Ride

I’m unsure how to stop this ride.

I’ve been spinning for years.

I’ve thrown-up so many times

it’s become a part of who I am

now. I’m the spinning vomit guy.

The ride, I got on it against my will,

thrown on through curious lines of

destiny and fate, mixed with dumb

luck and some shoving from behind.

I’m only riding because it’s the only ride.

The twisted carnival worker who

started the whole thing went on a

cigarette break millennia ago and

I don’t think they are coming back.

Too much vomit now surrounds the ride,

like a moat.

I’m sure there are others on this ride.

I can’t see them due to the constant

whizzing blur of this spinning hell I’m

trapped on. And I’m sure some of this

vomit isn’t all my vomit. I haven’t had

a French Fry in years.

I just want to know how to stop it,

this ridiculous revolution of riding,

without any control, only the perception

of control, and that’s been gone forever.

I want to hit the brakes and get off.

But I’m still spinning, my head is now

permanently stuck tilted to the left,

my body, now malformed due to the

forces of gravity pushing me into this

horrid bent and misshapen man.

Please, stop the spinning, the whizzing and

the whirling, the shouting and screaming,

the vomit and the despairing. Let this

Carnival close, let this circus fold.

And stop the spinning. Stop the ride.   

Marching On

So they marched,

dead-eyed in a steady,

silent parade.

Leaving nothing behind,

looking forward to nothing.

In step with one another,

shoulder to shoulder,

headed toward the misty fog

thickening on the horizon,

blocking out the Sun.

Faces screwed tight in

stoic meaninglessness;

The Doom Brigade,

in lock-step, moving

unwavering forward.

The crunch of their boots,

echoing through the quiet

streets of gray winter,

drowning any natural

noise in forward momentum.

Their eyes, unblinking, steady

on the necks of the soldiers in

front of them. Numbness coursing

through their veins, injected with

dystopian dreams.

A beast of progress, snaking

columns of men, over the next

hill, towards the inevitable battle

to come, where losses mean nothing,

and it is only time that is wasted.

The silent parade, moving in unison,

leaving nothing behind,

looking forward

to

nothing.

Idiots

Irritating idiocy irking

every instance.

Iconoclasts and Ironsides,

insulting each in incongruous

intonations.

I, incensed, ink it into

my insides; indexed and

itemized. Insured against

inevitable irresponsible

insurrection.

Idiots. Imbecilic, impotent,

incontinent and ineffective,

in each illustration;

Illusionary in intention,

only implicit in conclusion.

Imbibing on ill imports,

indulging in the intoxicating

incense of implied importance,

indicting innocence with insane

intentions.

Idiots. Ill-effecting my insides

into indigestion and irritation.

Incurable idiocy interrupting

any idyllic impressions of

Elysium.

I am incapable of ingesting

any more innumerable injustices

of this inconceivable and idiotic

Imperial invocation.

Indeed, a tale told by an idiot.

I am inconsolable.

Irritated.

Incomplete.

Intensely insulted.

Implacable.     

  

  

The Vastness Within

Did you know on New Year’s Day

NASA’s New Horizons spacecraft

passed an object 4 Billion miles

away from Earth? That’s beyond

Pluto and into the Kuiper Belt.

Only the Voyager Missions have

traveled further out beyond our

Solar system. Voyager One being

over 13 Billion Miles and Voyager

Two being over 11 Billion Miles,

into “interstellar Space”.

Both Voyagers have been out there

in space for 41 years. New Horizons

has been travelling since 2006 to make

it four billion miles away. It’s amazing

to me that human beings have done

this.

As these travelling vessels of our

collective ingenuity hurtle through

space; I am awed. Awed that when these

small satellites look back, Earth is just

another micro dot against the black.

We are insignificant, yet; it is only

a temporary insignificance. It seems

to me that our self-imposed importance

should be cast aside for the greater good,

for the opportunity to live in a New Era.

Sure, I’m one guy on a small planet in the

Milky Way. I’ll never live on the Moon or

make flapjacks on Mars. I’ll never experience

true weightlessness. I am bound to this

Planet and it’s destiny.

It is in my tethered nature that I aspire

to inspire, to love, to live, to hope, to spend the

New Year exploring the uncharted depths

of my humanity, my capacity for honesty,

integrity and living a decent life.     

It is the same hope that got

those space vessels into the air,

the same hope that keeps them

working, the same hope that I

want to cherish, honor and share.

In mine, and your explorations.