Riding on this Amtrak through the Empire State
I see what were once ash trays, sealed up for the public safety.
That metal flapping open is but a distant memory.
I'm reading a hardcover Bukowski collection while everyone's streaming movies on their MacBooks.
I'm writing this with paper and ink while everyone types away on iPhones.
Our headphones symbolizing how much we don't even care to be more than strangers.
Or why our paths may be crossing right now.
Like the tracks connecting beneath us.
No one gets off this train
This is what we've become
This is where we are headed.
I can't help my age,
but my soul feels this is wrong.
...all because of that damn ashtray.
Have you ever heard those flat harmonies of death, where operatic assertions resound throughout damp and ancient crypts of macabre folklore?
Time is slowly running out, and the flame of life is flickering in the winds of captivating finality.
Although haunting screams are like echoes which transcend fatty spreads of digestive mediocrity, the stalagmites and stalactites of gothic caverns display their erect features which defy rational explanation.
Feel the depths of soulless forests as they chant messages of reconciliation amidst tangled weeds and branches of self-stimulation.
Amitriptyline can facilitate sleep at the end of an indulgent evening.
Sometimes social media can be beautiful...
Like when your grandmother shares a photo
that she supports gay rights
when you've never come out to her
The cherry on top-
I was the one
that set up her Facebook account
on her very first iPhone.
Technology isn't the devil after all.
Delicate whispers of gentle streams
Subtly hinting at blue river dreams
Gradually flowing out of broken seams
Marking the interconnectedness of wooden beams
Flipping through papyrus in sinewy reams
The passing of solitude through tainted genes
All the pop culture in irrelevant magazines
Wondering what the world in its entirety means
Bracing oneself through nonchalant leans
Ready for what the universe brings
Rows and rows
Brick by brick
Cubicles and doors
Everything is happening
The moon is the same moon
The sun is a shared one
Every story is different
Each room differs
The walls keep us together
Appearing to keep us apart
Never at the same time
Or at the same thing
We eternally go
"Our world would be a barren
and a horrible desolated place
~ POETS and our intuitive subtle visions
~ MUSIC's universal healing sounds
~ DANCE OF NATURE
~ ANIMAL FRIENDS"
Reveal Love For Life:
living with each other
love and compassion.
The aqua back drop peels away at a marshmallow scene
While the aerial obstructions deepen and darken
Earth begins to cry in a desperate attempt to be clean
An age old story of a planet's reclamation
Serves as a reminder that life is cyclical
We rise and we fall
With the end we forestall
Much like the recycled tears that paint across my bare skin
I can feel the interconnectedness within
Tranquility embodies this life essence
Self-sustainable, she puts up a fight
Taken for granted, yet ever constant
Everything is going to be alright
a notable image..
in night sky
A creator or
A centered aging
says it all..?
The unusual shape?
A definite torus..
expressed as Torus..?
Boundaries of cones
form an X..?
Creation of symmetry
Why unusual colors
Red and Blue..?
Left and Right
Male and Female
As hydrocarbon molecules
colors building blocks
for organic life..?
Center Light transforming
to component colors..?
In a few million years
the Red Rectangle nebula
will probably bloom
into a planetary
They had begun to question consciousness,
turning solid matter into fuzziness in their brains,
rendering not atoms, nor photons, nor particles,
only cold energy, halucenogenic stardust joints.
For the exclusionary few to whom the material
had never meant shit to a tree or a fuck to a rabbit,
it was the cash-cow of quantum reality,
ambiguous poetry for a Beat Generation,
Uncertainty in free verse chapbooks.
So they wrote of our interconnectedness ---
the Ginsbergs, the Levertovs, the Ferlinghettis ---
till the gravity of space-mind curved imagination,
a nation falling unheard without a whimper in the forest.
The rabbits running in the ditch,
Beatniks are out to make it rich,
Oh no, must be the season of the witch"
--- Donovan Leitch
I'm lying here with the light on. The fan is set on speed 3, and it's pointed directly on me. Social networks dance on my computer screen. Faces of people, some of whom I've never met, spout endless minutia. So do I. We'd like to think that all of this is bring us closer to one another, but that is anything but the truth. This faux interconnectedness is just another way to live together, alone. These pills are beginning to take hold. My mouth is dry, and not even the coldest, clearest water can quench it. Sometimes I equate staying up that one last hour with having that one last drink. It's the one that always kills you in the morning.
It's 4:45 AM, and my alarm is set for noon.