Posts Tagged Purpose
Travels Through Death Soon to Come II
My death is arriv-
ing with brown and purple hugs,
temporary nails,
Gregorian chant sneaks up,
John Cage cheers my soul
I Can’t Find Myself
I fall in
to bleak
crevices where
my skin
flows and carves at my
insides, and I ask
myself, Who are you,
old man,
to blister away
time like
hot dogs in
a 7-eleven? or
like humans on a
turquoise lake?
America 2017, #6 — One Day I Was in the Old West in the Middle of An Abandoned Street
There is park-
ing in the rear, but
streets are emp-
ty, screaming
at me to stop short of life,
watch her wander by.
.
Another Dystopia Today picture from amateur Carl.
I Try Not to Slip Away from Who I Want to Be
Posted by Carl in Photography, Poems on February 23, 2017
We fixed you,
made you modern.
What would the windows do
when you have aluminum?
And lines, old lines, tan split by old,
above-ground lines, split by a
telephone pole, hand-carved sitting
by the door that would not allow you in
unless you showed your whole face
in the tiny box.
Oh but we opened a nice front
on the side and more aluminum
and now there are sadly-ripped papers
glued and taped to that window,
that door and the painting
on the window
look so stale, as if to be dead.
We gave you plenty of spots
but you sit there with
empty slices of bored, and
sleepy gravel,
waiting for action,
waiting for
the brightness of the energy
we need. And then,
and then,
and then,
would you watch that concrete
on the front?
Did we fix you, old man, or what?
No more curves or gaps or carvings.
We gave you 50s slab,
and if you don’t like it,
bang your head against that slithery, slimy wall.
until you bleed,
and the aluminum
laughs at you again and again.
.
.
America, 2016, Unnumbered, Crashing Crumbles Aboard My Late Train
Posted by Carl in Photography, Poems on February 20, 2017
Confusion
from concrete, crumbles
spray grain dust,
curling light,
crushing spirits that fly, creeps
crimping my dead brain.
.
.
Yet another Dystopia Today shot from the amateur Carl in some very small town (somewhere hidden in the midwest) sometime late in the Summer of 2016.
America, 2016, #2 – On Gravel to Avoid the Hit
One in front
of the other they
said and no
one would love
me again, tossed I am on
rusty grills.
.
Carl’s dystopia today shot near Gibbon, Nebraska, September 2016
.
Yesterday, When Serenity Hurt Madly
Hammer blows
make me clutch at brain’s
vice grip, pain
piddles, mind
arcs to new power, seeking
freedoms, but
losing art.
I Want a Robot (3)
to sit amongst the tans,
the creamy, sandy blurs
that don’t muffle, but seem
to punctuate the sounds of
gossip, soap-operatic gifs,
and cackles that reopen all my
wounds, to sit there,
punching the numeric
keys and alpha, as needed,
to be a steel case, undisturbed
by the chaos of death wearing
down the cubicled, doing my
job, so that I might wander
in a normally-hopeless search
for my life, for my reason.
.
Where is the Vision?
I flatter myself,
my persistent efficiency
in the drudgery, and the ease
of accomplishment
make my other missions
silly, inane and useless.
No one will tell me
I’m any good, whether it
is the drudgery or some
of my art, and if they
did, they would be lying
to me.
I Am the Trash Man
The litigiousness of society rips at me, but I’m likely to blow off the residing anger, say a cuss word like fuck and move on. When it was finally my turn, my day in court finished with a tremendous victory for me and my sleazy lawyer.
Later, after all of the media bullshit, when all of the people started detesting me, the anger erupted inside me, refusing to dissipate, so here I write my cultural defense, having crushed the competition in the courtroom.
When I did the people’s taxes, I had these spirited periods of time like being in a jet when I would punch in these crazy numbers, but it was always in the people’s favor. My customers loved me except if they happened to be audited. My audits seemed to get worse and worse, and the partners always blamed me instead of understanding that I was only trying to make things good for our customer.
I went out in a storm of blurry shouting when three of the partners sat me down in Fred’s office and fired me without letting me defend myself. I was still drunk from the night before, so I had yet to hit the sauce I kept in my desk drawer. I felt put together, Read the rest of this entry »
stillfugue 