in the long new year of indefinite lent, part one
the crowds are thinning
on the boulevard of cautionary tales
but maybe a new name is in order:
the street of the last chance saloons?
the avenue of the end times?
deathpat’s graveyard?
(have I been reading Tom Robbins too much?)
if only beer wasn’t half as expensive
as soda water
I think to myself
as I scratch the unshavenness
I am wearing to blend in
Monday has not traditionally
been a good day to start again
but so many of the old rules
are gone
and why wait for Tuesday?
as the street dwindles away
into shutters and sentries
~~~
one cannot help being impressed
by the creators of email spam
who continue to work tirelessly
through this crisis
the internet is our mirror
both individually and
our society
all the things we are
are in there
blaring back at us
staring back at us
in piercing shards
and loud lectures
our mythic heroes weep silently
in their corners and their caves
they are spent; they did what they could
for now we are on our own
the bandleader up on the bandstand
keeps calling up new titles but
the dream orchestra keeps playing
the same tune
the shadow protagonist
his time called at last
can only hack his way through the scenery
in stubborn repetition of past roles
on the same backlot
high shimmering painted skies
and smoke machines laid to waste
as he stumbles forward
incoherently shouting lines
from his past triumphant speeches
once there was not a dry eye in the house
now there is not a house
not even a rickety chair
~~~
after the day-after-day morning bangclatter
the view from my window
is still and flatly hot
like childhood summer afternoons
when everything was distant
and the birds were the loudest thing
to be heard
when we walk the streets
the comparison with zombies
is hard to avoid,
with our mouth hiders
firmly in place,
eyes working overtime in exaggerated expressions
to overcome the facewrinkles that
complete our brief exchanges
all plans mothballed
all bets off
all opinions bleated
all encouragements obeying
the law of diminishing cares
~~~
the streetscape edited
erratically, but continually
the familiar faces of these years past
disappeared:
home means different things to different people
particularly when pushed
strange times, we nod sagely,
as we quietly rearrange our priorities
even as we wonder what they are
somewhere it seems
our alter egos
are off hiking in the hills
picnicking halfway up cliffs
waving bottles of wine
at a different sun
wondering where the glasses are
wondering where the corkscrews are
wondering where we are
all plans mothballed
all bets off
shutters and sentries
the dream orchestra keeps playing
the same tune
as if underwater
like a postcard from
a different age
playing a tune from
an old fashioned show
still being written
embracing time
in small parcels
such as circumstances allow
take these thoughts
and do with them
what you will
now they’re out
they’ll find their own meaning
a mind bobs around on
remembered
embraces of deep recall
twists and twirls
as if underwater
confessions
obsessions
depressions
redemptions
all cut from the same cloth
like a postcard from
a different age
playing a tune from
an old fashioned show
still being written
staying informed
is there really more time
or really more space
than before?
forget what you know
you can always
look it up later
tealeaves and tarot
can make suggestions
as we strive to be predictive
in strikingly unpredictive times
or unpack your box of paints
and squeeze colour from the air
the air is different now so
maybe today you can paint
On contemplating a one storey kiosk that never got built off Lenin Street on the outskirts of Ulaan Baatar
being more interested in detail
than retail
reports from each of the fronts
hold a day together
and allow it
to follow
the last
and to precede
the next
unfolding as if there’s
a narrative we’re trying to follow
as the world grows more
angrily demented
in the background
to gather around a puddle
and stare at its reflections
may be the last sane act
we are allowed
let us not squander
our wonder
in the time of the plague
in the time of the plague
the paranoidly masked
and the toilet paper panic-buyers
whisper anxiously to each other
of their greatest fears
we seek to comfort each other
with statistics and histories
and updates and conflicting sources
as the world faces extinction again
and twice on Sundays
the words are spread
information runneth over
play-by-play unfolding
of new numbers
closing in upon us
as ever, opinions mean everything
and those without opinions
are doomed to have
nothing to say
Land
to land on land
somewhere inland
say the highlands of Scotland
or the midlands of England
or the island of Ireland
or even Newfoundland
but to find land
on which to land and stand and understand
then there’s Finland and Lapland
and headlands and heartlands
or even New Zealand
but still to find land
on which to land and stand and understand
even Poland and Matabeleland
and Holland and dreamland
and even Disneyland
and Tigerland (yellow and black)
a fish, a punch, a job, a pitch
and so to find land
on which to land and stand and understand
The Holy Land and the Badlands
farmland and the Promised Land
homeland, motherland, fatherland
parkland and wasteland
Graceland and no man’s land
Greenland and Iceland
and Nowhere Land and Neverland
but to find land
on which to land and stand and understand
on the entering of a prime
on the entering of a prime
with the perception of some kind of a perimeter
vaguely holding things in place
with a slow puncture
gradually insisting on deceleration
or at least more naps
late bloomer
but blooming
just in time
it’s all so much more
than it used to be
accents of inexpensive wine
gather shadily around the nose and mouth
on a face that now shows that it has lived
rather than merely survived
eyes that need tools
survey hands that are becoming speckled
while odd blemishes appear and fade lazily
expansion of keyhole views
overcoming an acceptance of assumptions
in order to take in the whole
part by part
that each part
might be filed away
for further digestion
the thirst and the why
that draws us into the world
a world constantly expanding
as minds may soak in its marinade
late bloomer
but blooming
just in time
it’s all so much more
than it used to be
the observation of an odd stubborn streak
hitherto hidden – but who knows?
perhaps it’s been clear to others
for many years stuck to the back
like a sign saying “stay away: I pong”
the relentless yinyang of the cave and the throng
the deepening exploration of minutiae
small wonder there are more naps
there’s cataloguing and cross-referencing to be done
life rarely pauses
but one gets more deft
at the use
of the snooze button
late bloomer
but blooming
just in time
it’s all so much more
than it used to be
ongoing refinement of priorities
without exclusion of frivolities
the acceptance of acceptances
the embrace of gracious graces
a distant humming
of horizons that lie
deeper than expected
but what surprise ought that be
knowing the distraction of surfaces
particularly now that we live in a world
largely consisting of surface distractions
the long dawning thought of
an alternative navigation
that this
tumblingstumbling
fallingupstairs
hitandmiss
path may be trod
by a series of
interlocking experiments
in alchemy and metaphysics
and quantum theories of
sanity and its cousins
still the days pass
with ordinary moments
wrapped around
and shot through
with quicksilver and lime
and a hint of major seventh
late bloomer
but blooming
just in time
it’s all so much more
than it used to be
