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Posts Tagged Purpose

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?

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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.

.

picture

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another Dystopia Today picture from amateur Carl.

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I Try Not to Slip Away from Who I Want to Be

 

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.

.

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America, 2016, Unnumbered, Crashing Crumbles Aboard My Late Train

Confusion

from concrete, crumbles

spray grain dust,

curling light,

crushing spirits that fly, creeps

crimping my dead brain.

.

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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.

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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.

.

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Carl’s dystopia today shot near Gibbon, Nebraska, September 2016

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 »

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You Too Can Write a Novel in 30 Days

I’ve been sold on so many things.

But I’m slow.
Too slow.
Too old to be slow.

Might die in 29
if you only give me 30.
Need infinite time
to create infinite art,

but I’m a wasted old man.

Accept my lack of time,
knowing my dreams are
infinitely stupid.

Dream I might write one,
just one, artistic poem, but
while I might finish,
it will never be good,

so I’m at peace
with my infinite inadequacy,
fueling my hopelessness,
but fighting my restlessness,

and putting it away.

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