Sunday, December 01, 2013

November 1963

Once, when you were
So near the Sun
As with eagle's wings,
Another Icarus so you seemed,
On a late November day
When we found ourselves
In free fall
Along a nasty road
Best not taken
And the hapless journey
Has continued ever since.

I was in Fifth Grade
When the world went hush
Between each breaking bulletin.
Such a silence, such a stillness
Except for a lone girl
In the back of the classroom
Softly weeping into a grammar book
She hadn't opened since last June.

Tarnished armor and tattered tales
Cobbled into a mythic flame.
A legacy of images liberally mixed
With facts as well as fiction
In a Hollywood blender,
Half tawdry in its grandeur.

It was the first revolution
Broadcast live in Black 'n White
With wyrd sister Cronkite
Spinning a convoluted tale
Of mindless mad obsession
That still plays like the climax
Of Oz where the man behind
The curtain stands naked
But unseen.

Devote we were
In those golden days,
At prayer every week
In the school house basement
With our heads between our knees
In quiet meditation to
The holy missiles that
Moved like shadows
In our dreams.

Those were the wonder years
Of the American century
As it glimmered and flared
Like a bursting star.
And even you were like a nova,
Intense and brilliant
For one brief moment
Then quickly dimming
Like sullen embers
Turning cold against the night.

Once, after a flood,
I found an old Civil Defense
Barrel water logged and open
And spilling out its treasures
For life in Armageddon.
A bottle of stale water and
A pack of moldy crackers
And illustrated instructions
For turning the barrel into
A post-atomic toilet.

It was an age both different
And the same.
In a single day was
Childhood's end
As cynics came to play.
It really wasn't the end of
Innocence for that had
Vanished long ago.
It was the end of something
The end of some conviction
Yet divined.

Thursday, October 03, 2013

In the Future When I'm Gone

In the future when I'm gone
Which is a lousy proposition
Based upon a half-baked circular
System devised by a second-rate
Creator who couldn't figure out any
Better way to end the story
Except by bumping off every character
And then discovering that the audience
Was gone despite a pitch for
The Heavenly Gate which plays like a
Pointlessly over produced “sequel” that
Leaves us stuck with every one we ever knew
(Some of whom I could easily do

So in the future, if I'm gone
Which is open to debate
Because I have some definite objections
To any ideas that were never vetted
By my lawyer and even if he were
Sober enough to deliver an opinion
I already know which way I lean in
My decision and all in all would rather
Be in Philadelphia as long as it isn't
That Sixth Sense kind of deal
And a steak 'n cheese is in the mix
With a good slather of onions
And fries on the side
And even then I am not going
Since it doesn't suit
My taste.

Monday, August 05, 2013

Sweet Dreams

Sweet dreams
Lost at the
Penny candy stand,
Somewhere next
To the nickel cigars.

Desire flows like sand
In a summer rain,
Clinging tight
To your fingers
Till the sun
Dries it hard
And bakes it brittle.
Then it flakes
Like a snake
Shedding skin
And drops like the past
In your way
Across the floor,
Crunching loudly
With every little step.

Monday, June 03, 2013

Toward the Canonization of Philip K. Dick

In the shadow of
That High Tower
We still abide,
Between a Roman wall
And Earth's green fields
And otherworldly spires.

Pray for us, St. Dick,
Pray for us all
As we ponder every vision
From every Revelation
You had received
(Which, oddly enough, were
More theologically precise
Than the average
Schizophrenic fit).

Half-sentient though we be,
For consciousness is a slippery thing
As we stumble through life
Like fleshy machines
With programs surely fried
By conflicting wants
And pinpricks of desire.
Cogito no ergo sum,
Ergo ego zoom

Vast are the hymns of
Active praise
Longingly sung to such
Infinite wisdom and
Saving grace.

Infinitely is the answer,
Which is why the questions
Are more profound.

Friday, April 05, 2013

The Notebook

Opening an old notebook,
Ink stained and brown,
I found a note from myself
Like a private code
Barely readable,
Sounding like a stranger
Who once used my name.

Philosophy says “I think
I was, So therefore
I must have been.”
Nearly forty years ago,
In student days with
With a bearded frown,
For only the young can
Waste so much time
In a studied state
Of seriousness.

I spent a lot of time
Jotting down quotes.
So many pages of
Thoughts profound.
Now they all
Sound like postcards
From a clown.

The past so often
Stays elusive.
It's like bumping into
A forgotten mate
Who knows your name.
They speak in such familiar
Tones of days you find
Best forgotten and you
Quietly wait until they leave,
Seeking inspiration from
Their absence.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Maybe Sometime

Maybe sometime,
In the last and
Lingering light,
Where fingers
In child like play
Across a pane of
Icy glass,
Tracing pinprick paths
Along the frost.
Brief trails
Connecting you
And me
In lazy rivulets
Intertwined in
Merging circles
Of warmth and cold.