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Sid Lollan May 5
As Rockwell shades and the old Japanese masters
Etch the seconds, second by second,
               in the clock on my kitchen wall,

There is a Roman calvary thru the door:
        Centurions poking at the snack drawers
With their iron swords a-clank. Guests are still asleep.
O and it’s centuries until dawn!
Sid Lollan May 5
The grief robin bubbles
     from *****, the sun’s blazed emblem—
           Morning comes in fits.

Scandent, white-blooming vines
     tickle gray’d limestone ribcage—
            This old house I’m bird upon.

People go in and out
      and the door is always shut.
            Who then, am I singing for?

My song is venom
     to visitors: Thee beware,
             I am a visitor here!
Sid Lollan Dec 2018
John was a sailor,
an now he rides the subway
-Aren't we all alone,
              an far from Home?
Sid Lollan Nov 2018
Constellations of Time
    suffocated, deadspace in my neural lapses—

                                               —still, I caught the fly
                                                             ­ with my hand.

Constellations of Time—
         and I am cowboy in the outer expanses of sanity

faithful cowpoke and Lenape murderer,
native lover, too,
dun American guru
       like john wayne defunct.
but when we speak like droogs,
       this be:
       America: A Detective Story

and I’m the dogged dreams of america:
Humphrey Bogart with his dame Liberty

No, I am Robert Mitchum, too.
Remember Philip Marlowe?


I once was america’s psychosis, and still am.
[I am
the soul who walked above
the soul who walked below;

Constellations of Time—
        like gooey cosmic spider webs;
[and I ******* hate spiders]
Fear of Death
…is being stuck, and
fear of that horrible cosmic spider coming home for dinner!

For,
I am
Monsieur Bonaparte’s Hollywood counterpart
who puts the war before the art,
but not the horse before the cart

DEATH

is where my story starts;
railroads,
like the spine of a country and constellations of time
–im on a plain–
ghosts in dust bowl clusters
reflect like
dust particles, like western stars, scattered—
and im on shifting razor planes and who do the math?
Sid Lollan Nov 2018
We opened our sores as long forgotten eyes

on the humps of our backs,high on the backs of memory’s rise,
[as targets at firing range; a scaly solution]

Soldiered as mountains, yonder
thru mountain pass, and again;

Obliterated bodies, and seaswallowed destinies
come to an end,
die along sunken dry keel of bloodcanyons echo, AHH!
                        [as other such scattered stories go]
,skeleton carriages strewn carelessly—from years above
        appear as bonepimples and dot history’s ridged, mule-like spine;

Messengers thru ancient highway passages: no water to be found,

but, like he told me,
‘WATER
is simply a state of mind’
Sid Lollan Oct 2018
What We're Told:
     There's 3 blind mice
                        but they're all helping each other to find their way
                                                                ­                   around the place.
What We Pray:
     There's 3 blind mice
                             and maybe there's a distant fourth that can see for
                                                                ­                           them, somewhere.
What it is:
      There's 3 blind mice
                             and one is pretending he has vision.
Sid Lollan Sep 2018
309
What’s the connection?—
        a secret kept best between plug and socket.
               Prophet man gone the old electric way,
[and durn’ an election year, no less]. Epigrammatic burps, and
  occasional flatulence, of intellection,      
I can’t help
        but admire my own kindofbouquet, it ain’t easy—
                 when Christ was crucified like gas…

…There’s a million and more clichés I could toss around as mud and dirt;
       Alas!,
                         I’d rather speak in terms of glass, [plateglass, stainedglass etc.,
               germs and love, and guns and lovely lovely ca-sh,

today’s math; burnt and sad, self—Walking [my] small town streets, sure to stray faraway of dense windows,
        and passerby's in ugly masks, with karaoke mouthpieces,
                       Ballads of boredom on precipitate tongues, Shoo!—away
and blow apart minstrel clouds.

        No taxis, [ever]
        just men and women in ordinary cars, pedestrians,
                   in obvious shoes,sporting unconscious denim,northeastern scowls
—fashionable scowls,
         nuanced grays that distract from the spots of ill sun [hostage winter sun;]
                 scowls like Northeastern sky herself.

“I’ve surely lost my perspective”
                 [An empty phrase, really. A neat vaguery, I submit.]
        I had a perspective, I still got it;
        Though not much use it does me being how singular it is,
                                       Optics and all, no shades of reflection,
Dense windows of thought, so dense,
       —it’s now a microscope! Hell, all i can make out is a loose collection of colors,

A broken box of loose wires
          and some kinda bang-up dodgy liberty, those frayed connections, too.
                Nothing as tidy as plug and socket,
        however,enough
                to keep the lights on.
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