tim is in a bubble (part 5)

poetry

the company wont pay
these machines must run on
through the powers of man
through the night and these
are not cheap
machines
ma’am

and unless you can afford
your sun will fall past
the horizon a last time
forever nighttime
forever more

(in this universe, far away
tim was unaware
of conspirators
itching for the bed on which
his mortality still lie
and of his mother’s love
being trodden upon
by the company
and the hospita
l)

and in this moment,
she noticed the ticking of
the clock for the first time
and with empty bank accounts
and an empty heart
she said goodbye.

tim is in a bubble (part 4)

poetry

the bills were payed
the car was running clean
the sun was high and shining
and so was tim
messages, on his phone
were full of things to do
full of wanting lovers
and not so full of shit
at this time tim was a member
of a higher type of being
and feeling a unique euphoria
touching the bottoms of a holy aura
his moderation might be questioned
but his spine was true
and at the top of the hill
speeding along felt just fine
but one even sure of grip
knows the old addage
“what goes up,
must come down”
and down he’d
go
just
like every
breathing minute.

tim is in a bubble (part 3)

poetry

he sat as a beggar and held
a shakey hand out to the princess

she gave him a slice of bread and
it was wonderful,
wonderful enough to well up tears
in his hungry eyes

but later, as the pangs began anew
in his lowly stomach, he saw
trough a thicket of bush

the princess
frolicking in baths
filled with the finest meals
with fat
smiling men

fat smiling men with fat ear to
ear smiles like they could die and
be happy
fat smiling men that could die a
happy death in pools of the
finest meals whose stomachs
would be full and souls would
be empty and so tim the beggar
moved on again

his hunger subsiding.

tim is in a bubble (part 2)

poetry

in room 104
in between rooms 103 and 105
he lay unconscious

if you walked from one room
to the next and to the next
like he did in his dreams
you’d see vacancy,
of all sorts
and you could imagine
people coming and going
all wrapped up and tight
like little springs

the doctors and hangers-on
discussed mortally while he
floated in his dream way
above their heads

but then

hadn’t he

always been

above their

heads?

he’d not find himself, tim
on this plane or any other
ever again
he’d never find himself ever again.

tim is in a bubble (part 1)

poetry

this is a room full of televisions
turned on and on and on and on the
same volume and on and on and on
different channels on and on and on and on
they play filling this soulless room

distorted
distopian
discordant
distant,
lost;
the colors flash and the sounds to
a trained ear tell you to run away

our protagonist friend and narrator
lies here emitting putrid electric waves
shaking up the air for no genuine reason

he’s just a television,
after all.

Fallen Snow at Evening on a Plastic Playground

poetry

Vantage from the park bench surveys fallen snow like manna from heaven, raining frozen stars in promenade.
Sparks of spirits springing into step; orbiting fires spell majesty in constellations.
Grated clouds in the cold bring warmth, and a silence that I eschew and do not quite yet understand.
It adorns, gowns every vista in panoramic pageant, the bride made without stain or blemish presented to her groom.
But this bride of cold feet, indecision and logic soon tatters herself.
Countless footsteps in snow unknowing, tracking innumerable roads to sanguine eternities bending backwards to vaults and beds, stages and beakers finding steps to stairways, up mountains, ziggurats, podiums, passageways, pyramids; zenith ascensions and tombs.
Bare trees pronging branches like upside down octopuses, arching tines; a million fingers stretching heavenward;
One-hundred thousand forks spoking to the skies, waiting to taste paradise.
Every atom yearning upward, gravity shackles in opposition and the snow descends to cover us.
The Bible I read says you made all this, but how?
The scope to see is inconceivable, if only I could understand why? But who would you be then?
The demand for attention is indomitable; I’m jumping off the edge of me and falling into you.
The plastic playground, a Lincoln log cabin made life size:
with green plastic tiled roof, with red plastic cross beams, with yellow plastic fencing, with swirling blue plastic slide, with brown plastic walls; a menagerie of color.
And a bridge, bowing to the most tentative of pressure, connecting plastic palace to another plastic palace.
Swing sets: here, gripping tangible yes! almost, slipping BACK! there, gone, distant, lost! nothing.
Rings, rings, links of promises looped together, groaning to stay fast, afloat, and hold on to their terms of words and actions.
Built wrapped around one another, the weight of integrity, the dismay of compromise.
Whine chinking, frictioned, shrieking like witches cackling over cauldrons foretelling prophecies of fallacy; moving, but always stuck.
Higher! So much, not enough! Enough! When? Too high! Too high! The chain slags, snags, jumps, rattles, can anyone withstand?
He curses him, the air curses him, slaps cracked lips.
Snow soggied foundations, rubber and woodchips loosed on disillusioned endeavor unmatched by fallen snow covering hills in white stitches.
Every blade of grass illuminated in whited pencil pricks, competes with hungry moon.
Frozen in white, Lethe has forgotten itself: petrified waves, streak rippled statues, apocalyptic landscapes. Oblivion pauses.
The snowflakes smile, slide beyond, absorb sound, render me unto solitude and silence where all is holy.
The brave beauty of heaven stands naked; shades of ash transmute to linen white; transient, poised and everlasting.