Here are a couple poems I wrote when I was still living in Florida. They were published in Main Street Rag and Existere in 2011, and I think they hold up. It’s nice to run across an old poems that hold up because a lot of my old ones don’t. I wrote a lot of crap right after I moved to Berlin, but I think I’m finally back in my groove again… just writing the truest sentences I can, as often as I can. I think I got away from truth somehow and that was my problem. But these bring me back, and it wasn’t that long ago. A lot has changed…
The Ghost of Christmas Future
You never planned on staying here. You are here because of a series
of failed circumstances. Your job, a woman, your mortgage, and probably
some ration of cowardice. This is the Wasteland T.S. Eliot spoke of.
A small town of no destination. A decaying culture. Your
inheritance: a completely grounded people. Soil-bound, you might
say. The graveyard beckoning them, you. Tombstones
not the only symbol of death here. Its forms are multitudinous
and everywhere: a realtor’s unpleasant physiognomy whisking
past on a bus billboard. The cracked blue windowpane at the American
Legion. The factory worker roaming outside of it, who shares too
many of your own features. He’s about twenty years your senior, his nose
scarlet from drink, sad eyes. Even his shoulders, and the hump
that’s growing on his back, remind you of yourself.
It’s still dark out. A small lamp burns
in the corner of the room.
And I can hear the highway from here,
like the sea softly ebbing
and surging. Cars, buses, the rumble
of delivery trucks. They pass by
all through the night. The never ending haste
of humanity. And who are they?
Truckers? Murderers? Factory men?
Young lovers? People with lives
not unlike mine, pass by all through the night.
While sleeplessly I sit up
reading an old book of poems,
beautiful Greek poems. My woman sleeping
in the other room. Seven years
in this house. Fifteen months
behind on the mortgage.
The book soon falls from my hands,
like everything else. The highway still humming.
The never ending haste
of cargo vans, SUVs, motorcycles.
blazing a trail. To
where? For what? Softly the sounds
swim over me.