poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:031

RALPH MONDAY : 'Bergman's Island' & Other Poems
The Sense of Feel
A Prayer for Those that are Plugged in
Same Old Song

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The Sense of Feel

Some feel the deep oceans. Some feel the blackbird pecking at winter’s crusted seeds. Some feel cracking ice in spring thaw. Others sense the universe expanding in the bourbon dark, fragmented galaxies growing further and further apart in the way of dead relationships. Feel or sense: a type of discernment, unconscious recognition of nuance—the bird following magnetic lines, the bear fat on fall’s acorns, the dusky wind carrying centuries’scents, the woman in the window pulling on lingerie for the lover who never comes. Some feel the footsteps always walking—to nowhere, to somewhere while some sense the pregnant stroll will always be futile. Even the leaves, the rocks, snow skimming the ground, flowered trees, feel what can’t be felt, discarded lingerie the same. Whether felt or sensed, the dark between the stars grows ever larger, and earth will not come walking forward to the banqueting hall.

poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:031





A Prayer for Those that are Plugged in

There is terror in the inarticulate, those that do not read, have forgotten history. Those whose lives are controlled by flickering images, momentary corporate distractions living in the land of the electronic zombies. A prayer for those that are plugged in. Images. Flick flick flick across screens in homes, cars, mall and even meadow, worship of the new god's tiny eye, history in present pixels, 24 hour sound bites where antiquity is Tiger, Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, the lastest stuffed simulacrum, the ego-eye honing in to feed, sounds and sights carried in back pockets— A prayer for those that are plugged in. German crematoriums just another image, Pol Pot some new rapper, crusades a cool CD—they do not read, they twitter, they do not see, they Facebook. This terror has no time table, patiently waits like blind albino termites building mounds under the earth, chambers full and fecund for all those that are plugged in.

poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:031





Same Old Song

Lately I’ve been wanting to return to the seventies. We all want to return from exile, somehow, someway, but Wolfe was right, no way home again. Trying hard though: listening in the truck to “Crocodile Rock” and Carly Simon singing “You’re So Vain” while musing on all the vain people that I have known. This is like being put in a brown paper sack for somebody else’s lunch. I want that feast, but you get too old to eat, especially when you finally realize that everybody is working out of ego and fear. That drives them. That along with biology and myth. Everyone the center of his/her own little myth—ego-lollipops rolled up in the sex drive to be licked away relationship through wasted relationship, biology pulling them together like a crocodile chewing on that week old rotted gazelle corpse till they’ve had their fill, woke up in yet another strange bed wondering WTF— till age catches up and biology no longer matters. Gets to the point that nothing matters. I sit at my windowsill every morning drinking coffee and thinking about this while the sun comes up and the birds wake up the day: little narcissistic shits.




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read more poetry

RALPH MONDAY : 'Bergman's Island' & Other Poems
The Sense of Feel
A Prayer for Those that are Plugged in
Same Old Song


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