An Imperfect Apology



Such a long time back to Omaha.
Through the elephant-eared tent flaps,
past the Orlando skyline
drafting a single ambitious arc
over the horizon and gone.

Miles and months and mouths
forcing food-like product in;
then churning
thought-like rubbish out.
It seemed to breed a rustic stoicism.
So said the optimists in full swing;
their brushes loaded with silver linings,
jousting at gridlocked chicken trucks.

Sardined, thin as playing cards;
faces domino
all the way to 'Welcome to Nebraska'.
Great Plains night and bitter liquor
making you think the world
had fallen asleep at the weeping wheel.
Sailed right on over the edge of the unexpected;
leaving you with a blank check
drawn on the First National Bank
of Questionable Liquidity.

So Omaha brought you low,
or did it just show you the low
that was already there;
a permanent cast to your shadow?
Let the suits argue,
pounding flimsy podiums.
You got left holding the bag, bro.
That weight stacked so high on your back,
even the obscene Orlando sun was blunted.

Too many words run together.
The sweat and the unsweetened tea defile each other;
and no-one is satisfied
with all the leftover lemons.
Too many faces,
and the humanity
just drains away.

So a fractured mirror shows you
greasepaint smeared from chin
to fright-wig hairline; Yes, you feel less vulnerable now.
Not the Joe who left an innocent one,
so forgetful of needful things
like shoes and purse,
or a cheap ride home - grudging courtesy of a graceless brother.
Her bicycle still leaned against the big red dot,
around the corner from a creosote pole.
That pole crowned by a broken streetlamp,
where swifts camped in relative elegance.

Walking back to the trailer alone,
fingering a stocking.
Eyes follow a blur of shower sandals through
gravel dust and the detritus of nests.
Bend for a moment to inspect the minutia
while a ninety foot tidal wave
crests at the edge of your vacant heart's parking lot.

On past the package store
with plenty of swill and low overhead.
For a moment slapped and glacier-wrapped
by reflections from Schwinn paint and plated metal.
Silent tires needle you about the hour.
What time will it be
when time finally freezes
on the outskirts of Ottowa?




12.25/26.03

note :
write based on the three photos below

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Really enjoyed this.
Read like a travelog of a clown being reflective. Swept up inna circus
of melancholy.
Dug the images written throughout the piece. Thought they were
real tight..

Quote:

Too many words run together. The sweat and the unsweetened tea defile each other; and no-one is satisfied with all the leftover lemons.

Nice.
.
.

thanks, kriticool -
props from you always head the list.
been a while since i looked at this one
& see some changes that will make it
clearer. maybe open mic it tomorrow.
best.
critter aka neil from the PROJX

.
.
ur welcome doc; u kno
we're jus takin notes
& servin not-ice as peace-rant-ed.
nuthin but.
.
.

ima likem 'moticons.
even got shiny shades.
prolly hadda pays essra.

and a little ball with an arrow that goes roundy-round ...

they don't just give them away like a side uh grits.
course yall don't have grits.


whatchu think i should read on the mic?
this [above]
this
this
or
this ?

time's a'wastin.

Wow. I liked this piece. It was reflective and refreshing. I'd prefer to read this piece than to have it read though. It's kind of like a personal reflection sitting chilling while the breeze blows deal.

thanks so much, the_whisper.
you make a useful distinction,
and i could use more of those
in my life.
best wishes.

thanks for the input.

wow -

poetry

thank you

hello, Tizzy Lizz^_
thanks for letting me know
that you had a good time.
best wishes.