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drumhound May 2014
Rousseau lingers in the souls of lethargy. "I know
that [civilized men] do nothing but boast incessantly
of the peace and repose they enjoy in their chains..."

Efficiency is a masquerade for same old,
same old; undaunted herds recycle cud,
new food demands passion.

Allegories of independent thought
paint extravagant ethereal world portraits
in many shades of one color.

Legends are born in feebleness - dilitary hammers
riddle red cap gun ribbons sparking
outrage insufficient enough to make a statement

Let them cry muted cries
in one act plays to empty seats, as they
preen unripe scabs to detour unresolved issues

Yearning is vacant, yea, absent, as an
occasional yeoman's hail song is heard
in the distance milking a lily for a reason to go on

?s are the only things that exist
in reality. No one knows who they are
in the bell tower...they simply ring the bell.
******* at the bards
drumhound May 2014
Some people
will never be content
to stay
within the boundaries.
drumhound May 2014
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******.

7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.

An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.

And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.

Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.

Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.

Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
drumhound May 2014
In a place where nothing
should be touching, chairs
press against one another,
and the walls, and the floor,
and the hacking lung butter
semi-ambulant, eight of nine
***** little leaguers, a noisy
Mexican family two lazy women
in spandex without their Medicarecardandawifewhoshouldn'tbehererisking
herweekend fortheloveofasickmanandeverythingis
ickyandtouching.
drumhound May 2014
Whittlers
and
old fishermen

lie

as recreation,
personalizing wooden benches
beneath
dirt-soiled overalls

just outside Johnson's

Five and Dime.
Stories piggy-back
legends birthing holy folklore -
religious fables told with bowed heads
in reverence to tall tales.
This form is based on the number PI.
Stanzas and syllables 3.1415926535897
drumhound May 2014
I'm 53
until the umpire yells
PLAY BALL

I'm 53
until the new kid steps in
and tries to relieve me
from moving the piano

I'm 53
until 10 p.m.
when I look online to see
my kids have a party going on

I'm 53
until I'm at the stop light
next to a guy
with a bigger muffler
and crooked cocky hat

I'm 53
until the boys call
in need of a drummer

I'm 53
until someone mentions
ROAD TRIP

I'm 53
until the young guns
want to wrestle for
bragging rights

I'm 53
until they start a story with
"Remember the time..."

I'm 53
until the Red Hot Chili Peppers
walk onstage

I'm 53
until the college girls walk by
in their summer wear
my stomach
drawing into my chest
and my stroll revives swag
as the cute one turns to say
"Good morning, Sir.
Can I get that door for you?

I am 53.
drumhound Mar 2014
it starts with a chug
a push of steam leaning into the next chug
more resolved even desperate
building momentum with each turn
three thoughtless words
leave the station blowing spiral exhaust
picking up sentences along the way

passengers climb aboard destination cars
riding click clack click clack lyric tracks
as they squelch an urge to peer ahead
for the blind belly-gripping corners
hiding morbid thoughts of finding themselves
somewhere in an ominous tunnel
with a villain from chapter 3

but they come anyway
paying good fare
with cash and unbartered time
reserved for such a season as this

infinite itineraries through
countrysides and comedies
mountains and mysteries
prairies and poetry
highlight endless whistle stop fantasies
predestined by curious minds
throwing line by line hypnotic leisure
into the rhythm of the wheels

beauty is revealed
through the picture windows of books

yet
in the midst of gorgeous landscapes

undreamt dismantling jumps
hardened steel guides in these words:

...I would have been referred to religion,
the cemetery where questions of faith are answered....


the pleasant journey
comes derailed on the slip switch
possessed of both genius and sadness
for cemeteries are only death if
they are the end of the vision

tombstones create blind men
of brilliant skeptics
when
Lazarus lives
the tomb is empty
and the end isn't

faith puts the train upright
setting the switches to forever
bypassing graveyards
and riding to the unquenchable light.
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