140623A
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We invent end games
to rival our beginnings
in the undergrowth
that becomes overgrowth
to conceal the darkness.

We conceal more and more
with whatever we reveal
trying to hide away
the burden of our revelations
as to growth of our discontent.

Few have the imagination
as to practical alternatives
all proving equally impossible
but leaving a parade mustered
and marching through.

They do not know where
they are going or came from
but it is a concerted action
that fills the emptiness
in incomprehensible ways.

The way sex sometimes fills
an otherwise empty place
in that private compartment
along the rattle and bump
defining of common journeys.

You wanted much more
but they always gave you less
than what you needed to make
to buy your way out
from another slow kind of death.

Putting nothing back in
where they take it out of you
and take it out on you
until you cannot look forward
and there is nothing behind you.

There is no way to stop
the turn over and over
when you are on that roll
over and over and over again
as a Jack or a Jill going down.

Take your broken crown
knowing there is no mending
of those fractured trinkets
once seemed wisdom's gems
but only mocked the sparkle.

What to actually do
with life's trash filled bowers
when the dance has ended
as a maze of pointless steps
never discovering any destiny.

Destiny that is something more
than the same steps reproduced
in a faith filled and faithful way
that never questions any such
belief in gametes of meaning.

We hold on to whatever it is
the winds would blow away
from a stunted too short reach
becoming as crumpled up
as is yesterday's news.

We are folded completely up
into our own wrinkles
our paper thin skins stamped
with various processing marks
as to what we have been through.

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140623B
-----------

Those were the days back then
when it seemed there really was
somewhere to be gone to
gave an illusion of difference
in a context of all possible worlds.

Then taken and gone away
there is that variant of purgatory
past a bluff and dragged down
where every gesture is a vague flail
toward impossible haunts.

Joined to no more than ghosts
dweller in death's dream kingdoms
offered vain solace to closed eyes
tormented by lack of substance
that slices everything away.

Oh, what would have been done
if apportioned means and ways
for the sake of plans and doings
before the light was snuffed out
or boredom made its imbeciles.

Having no business with any
plague ridden festering ideas
burst as infected shudders
in perpetually fevered conditions
that are neither dead nor alive.

The brain being eaten at
by a pressing sense of emptiness
where the passing have thrown in
their discards and trash
toward a gradual decomposition.

Trying to fill in fragments of time
with many a worthless salve
invariably fails as curative
physicians ignorant of answers
and perceiving no actual malady.

The normal condition being worse
than the various exceptions
that they say can all be treated
and sometimes actually cured
back into the normal condition.

What malingering state
brings such profound discontent
cleaving whatever soul might be
from any possibilities of moorings
as if lost to all sense of harbouring.

A stranded sense of being
that finds itself on no actual map
as to anywhere or any-when
but left to that sort of wandering
that knows of nowhere left to go.

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140623C
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Sugar drips of syrup sun
into pools of hungry blue
bounce of sky feathers
on the touch and go waters.

A blush on the dimple pool
blazes in a bright of eye
along the chatterbox stream
meanders in merriment.

A rustle among brittle reeds
announces a solitude
causes a flutter of cries
turned to scatter winged.

Dropping their burdens
in spates of hurry down
necks of pillow cases
adrift on verge of blankets.

Feather dust fronds waving
watery edge of morning
slippery in the wind chimes
whispering wild flowers.

---------------------------------

140623D
-----------

That faded out worn away
look that gazes out
into an expanse of nothing
that would break the monotony.

We have no actual business
to enliven the bland repast
creates the strained void
cluttered with trivial afflictions.

A merely affected thing
bereft of true foundation
too poorly built for any stand
that offers any real defence.

Everything being defended
in various trivial absurd ways
from both the imaginary and real
threats announced and announcing.

Romance is not what it seems
but only for the curious
and someone's passing fancy
outside any deeper meanings.

Mere vagrant tastings
then spoil delicate fare
of morsels that are nothing there
but whispers of failed dreamings.

Perhaps for the successful
haunts of hallowed halls
but not for one always outside
all those mighty bolted doors.

A world for the winners
and not anything for fools
who only know the jest
but never any truer substance.

With nothing to open up
and nothing to do with any
beyond trivial comments
about the most trivial things.

Silence takes hold
as though a scold upon lips
bridling remnants of empty
hopes and other futile schemes.

What point to speak anymore
concerning the impossible
and nothing else worth saying
concerning truth in meaning.

Truly nothing to be done
related to worth that matters
makes all a foolish show
rivals the ado about nothing.

Movers and shakers know
what one knows naught
and there is no pilot to be found
to navigate perpetual dark.

There is nothing sublime
in feeling so outside solace
while the victors celebrate
their ways to the spoils.

Leaves nothing to occupy
and even less to absorb
cruel passages of squalid time
ravaging remains.

----------------------

140623E
-----------

Life makes its demands
and I cannot give answer
in what remains unknown
as to all the tallies up
and all the various measures.

Knowing no deep truths
about any such grave matters
as what is given up on
in not even a prayer's chance
beyond a shovel full of dirt.

Nothing was ever fixed up
nor was it ever arranged
as anything more than grieving
estrangements and changes
provident of illusory futures.

We prefer to believe differently
and particularly about each other
beguiling ourselves with inferences
to pure chance being kindness
somehow directed and orchestrated.

One builds private monuments
to those sorts of tragedies
knowing no recompense
and bereft of opportunities
to evade the too empty.

----------------------------

150623A
-----------

Puttering with insignificance
as though it can be repaired
in some make shift crude way.

The make do sort of rigging
that prevails in rough edged
renderings of crippled times.

Tie yourself up and rope in
for the inevitable rough ride
that is taking you nowhere.

Knowing no one will take you
that you can stand a presence of
if you cannot take yourself.

For the sake of getting there
on an inevitable Rube Goldberg
trying to imitate creation.

Between the crude and the vulgar
try to make a bit of space
finding no pull or push that way.

Being somewhere in the middle
but what they give you is the same
painted into corners of short ends.

Your constantly fierce incentive
to attempt and do the impossible
seeing that as a way out of suffering.

An unshakable up against it feeling
in the thick and thin of what takes
whatever you do not really have.

Everything is always borrowed
and if you do not wear it out
someone else will make use of it.

-----------------------------------------

150623B
-----------

Do not know if it means anything
more than a jumble of patterns
rearranged and read into
because we want something
and we demand it from them.

How often do we really know
what we really want
in the not having any of it yet
and knowing it is there
hiding beneath the surface.

There is the animal inside
that wants to dig it out
the way we dig splinters out
from under the skin
easing that persistent irritation.

The way dogs dig holes
throughout the entire yard
mysteriously uncovering
and variously burying
instances of acquired meaning.

We bury those who have died
along with some of the living
covering over with the dirt
passes as a type of soil
where existence is rooted.

History is a mound of dirt
where we imagine we can keep
something we fear to lose
that is mostly lost to us already
between cruel pitches.