"dustmites" poems
Drastic measures must be taken to overcome the afternoon lull.
Seventeen obscure hardbound essays to consume, spines flaking
and half-eaten by dustmites. Their goodies
can only be extracted by torture, but my instruments are dulled
by shriekless hours and the fuddy-duddies
beside me, who god help me I’ll never become,
though I’m already bearded, and have started showing some dome.
Time, I think, to give something back:
a single bogie on a lone mission
to retake Stevens’ Noble Rider and the Sound of Words.
A big ask, I reckon, but this mischievous frisson
is deepness: It’ll probably be half, or at least a third
of my life before anyone finds my sleeper, my double agent
Amongst horses shedding their coats for the summer.
I smile at no one in particular, and return to my stack.
Keyboards clatter like rain, drowning out what little glamour
remains of the microfiche, leaping silent
over centuries in a smallish room in the corner.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 6:49 AM UTC
Hello little Jack staring at the wall,
wandering amongst dustmites as they fall.
Hello little Janie jumping downstream,
waiting for mother's panic-stricken scream.
Children of days and nights and days again,
dance in the sunlight my sweet minutemen.
Enjoy the color before she's swept grey.
Oh my darling please just live for today.
Because there's no way that this can go on
before the cogs entrap you in their con
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC