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POETIC FLIGHTS 2

Page 6

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Poems about hope and love are listed on the index of poems

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alienation

Barely recognizing
myself,
half humanoid,
half ergonomic
chair,
self-condemned
to this
asymmetric cube
of deadened
space--
the prison yard
of my prostituted
thoughts--
I insipidly reflect
on my dilemma:
inbox
overflowing,
deadlines unmet;

I suspect
recycled gases
seeping
through the vents,
while
this guileless
phosphorescent
brain
surreptitiously
scans
what little
is left
of my programmed
soul;

Eyes glazed,
hopes anesthetized,
I gaze upward
to another stolid
face
etching out
the seconds
of my Sisyphean
fate;
one by one
the tickings
of the moon-eyed
clock
snap off
and plunge into
oblivion.

Sometimes
with a sudden
spastic resolve
I uncoil
my spine
and clutch
at parts
of my misplaced
self,
but
an overpowering
lassitude,
like quicksand,
sucks me back;

I resurrect
hallucinatory
routes of escape
through airless
conduits,
knowing too well,
dear comrade,
tomorrow
once again
I'll still
be right here
where I've always been.





poems of struggle

When the daylight collapsed,
He would retreat
To his private room,
And surrender to nightmares
Flowing up,
As the clacking and grinding cogs and wheels
Of the officer's machine
Mercilessly minced his thoughts;

Yet out of affliction,
Thermals of inspiration were born;

Lifted upward
By raw desire,
His body still tethered
To insipid necessities of life,
For a short while
On fragile wings,
He fluttered toward a smudge of light;

The machine sustained him,
The machine finally
Devoured his cheesy lungs;

Not quite forty-one times,
His metamorphosed self
Ellipsed
The moth's lamp,
When a savage hand
Yanked him down
Into
The infernal pit;

On bleached pulp,
You still can see
The stain of his heart--
His indelible crimson oil.







poems of humanity
. The earth-scented anesthetic wearing off
Sun-stuff invading every pore, every crack
Engaging the sleep-gummed sap
Blossom-thunder, bee wind
Wing bursts, manic leapfrogging
Uncoiling in the rocks
Ancient paths filling themselves up
Things going in, things coming out
In the soil, in the air, in streams
Manic entwining, explosions of birth--

All this ripening, this spilling of juices
Too much for the bejeweled soul
No forged longing in the orca's loins
No alien dreams in the sitka's heart
No sighing in the sky-tangled grass
For other worlds.




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