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The Death of Dreams

Not old but old enough to be dead.

People visit merely to see if I’m dead.

Watching a car wreck not long before the wreck.

 

Avery Fisher Hall, bigger than all of earth’s atmosphere,

With Ode to Joy blasting away at the darkness of space,

All so tan and so wood-bound, like being within a still heart.

Give me that black block and put me on top and enjoy me.

Allow me to stomp, stomp heavily and wave gloriously.

Allow the sound to push me against the rail.

Allow the audience to believe that I shower magic.

Thank you Beethoven, but it is I who brings this new world

Into a massive blizzard of velvet blankets all curled about,

all parading invisibly in the tan landscape with worshippers.

The brown shells crush me to liquid.  I am not Beethoven!

 

The razor cut stains the shirt and tells of the carelessness

Of a man who is swimming in pipes with Drano running green.

Watching the liquid flow before there is liquid.

 

The maples cover court eleven in enigma.

Possibility paradise awarding the tireless with toothless hope.

Zima, Zima, Zima, fuel and luxury for the eternal day with blisters.

Stringing machine poised to give me my haircut, shortest of all.

Mother is a pro, stoic, above the messy soup of my windy work.

All respect Mother, and she need not respect any and shuns my failure.

McEnroe screams out and up and throws the wood of old as I wish,

But my screams stay inside, scraping the brain and eating my heart,

Jack Kramer should be tossed, but Mother forbids imperfect humans.

Tilden is brilliant.  Losing in order to win.

I lose and lose and never win.  I  am not Tilden.

 

Swamped by the heavy pink and purple.

Humans attack and hate, and skin is thin.

Watching me, some see the tears, all laugh vigorously.

 

Stravinsky creates a furnace for fiction.

Complex dances with language that looks lacey and pretty.

It trips the mind with sand in a storm, like a muddled trash pile.

Shostakovich Ten craves the powder falling from the ceiling.

Modern inventions making the creation so puerile.

PB destroys, walking across the large square with her wet paws.

Powerful King shredding the perforations as The Sun Also Rises.

Stabbing at the wall.  Nobody feels love like I do.

Nobody feels tragedy as I do.

The cold pierces the mind and survival is not likely.

Fierce black ice kills.  I am not Hemingway.

 

The tie chokes and drivers everywhere threaten.

Melding of white lines and crashing metal pieces.

Shear the top off.  Take my head off and make me stupid.

 

I’ve submitted this for One Shot Wednesday.  Grateful that it’s another nice Wednesday.

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  1. #1 by brian on December 15, 2010 - 10:34 am

    dang vicious verse…lots of delicious imagery between the music and the tennis…careful they may take more than your head…

    • #2 by Carl on December 15, 2010 - 9:14 pm

      That’s not fair. Then they might be taking the good parts.

  2. #3 by dustus on December 15, 2010 - 10:52 am

    Makes me consider many forms of genius and how creation has changed over time. Well done! Enjoyed reading your poem very much.

    • #4 by Carl on December 15, 2010 - 9:14 pm

      Thank you for commenting. I appreciate it.

  3. #5 by cloakedmonk on December 15, 2010 - 10:28 pm

    Holy moley! What an ending. I love the inter-textuality of the references especially to music and literature.

    Thanks!

    • #6 by Carl on December 15, 2010 - 11:19 pm

      Thank you for your feedback. I appreciate it.

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