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 Jul 2018 Daniel J Weller
MicMag
they say there ain't rhythm
they say it don't rhyme
but people get famous off that kinda ****
all the ****
day
 Jul 2018 Daniel J Weller
MicMag
i sit awake
in an empty room
staring at a screen

while she lies awake
in another room
staring at a screen

i slowly wake up
roll over in bed
stare at a screen

she's already up
eating oatmeal
staring at a screen

i pour my coffee
sit down with my cereal
staring at a screen

where'd the day go?
already late afternoon
staring at a screen

i refill my water
gulp down some health
staring at a screen

a neighbor drops by
just to say hi
and stare at a screen

time to prep dinner
need a recipe
so i stare at a screen

chop chop chop
cooking up a storm
staring at a screen

sit down together
sharing a meal
staring at screens

scrubbing the pots
drying the plates
staring at screens

plopping down on the couch
resting from a long day
of staring at screens

crawl into bed
kiss goodnight
stare at a screen
Are the screens staring back?
 Jul 2018 Daniel J Weller
MicMag
A collision!
Everyone frantic
All worried about

The people
     Are they ok?

          The damages
               How much to fix that?

                    The traffic
                         How long is this gonna hold me up?


But maybe...


   C  ould we all just stop for a minute and
   R  ecalibrate our priorities to truly
   A  ppreciate the incredible variety of
   S  ounds joining together in perfect
   H  armony as the cars smash into one another?


Go ahead
Call me calloused
But listen:


Squeal Screech Honk Bam Boom Smash Bang Clank
Wham Crack Thwack Rattle Whoosh Hiss Gasp

But mostly
That unmistakable
Hauntingly mellifluous

CRASH!!!
The train is a mechanical snake,
its hiss occasionally scrawled
above the grating of its own

movement as it cuts through
the smear of graffiti and concrete
and waste and dry bracken.

A single voice, “she was the
third fastest girl at the gala,
yeah she was really pleased”,

the voice enveloped by the
drone once again. The train
entering the tunnel.

The Financial Times lies on
the plastic table, the pages loose
from bored ******* bears the

headline: sacrifices required for ambitious goal.
Eyes trace the same paragraph over

and over, drawing nothing from
the coldness of the type script.
I think about conversation but my

tongue lulls in my mouth, dry,
and my mind wanders between
small talk and meagre pleasantries.

I stare at the man across from me for
what seems like minutes, knowing that
he knows I watch him, analyse him,

but there is no fight or pretence, only the
tired apathy and reluctance I know.
his arms cross. His eyes close with half sleep.
from Inertia: A Poetry Film Sequence and other Selected Poems

— The End —