Sep 9, 2012

nineties poetry... prepare yourself.

Everything Must Go

I went to a house sale
They're selling it all now
It seemed kind of awkward
Their stories laid open

Where was this table?
This house-husband pillow?
What kind of programs
Were on this TV?

A super-eight camera
That took family movies
An old crocheted afghan
An old false-pine wreath

Who are these people,
And where are they going?
Are you the one selling,
Or a vulture like me?

I went to a house sale
It's all up for grabs now
I ponder the prices
For rocks in the yard.

It's all mostly gone now
The family; the stories
Divided and conquered
And led off to die

Or is it a rebirth?
A fresh start for mother?
A new yard for father?
A small fixer-upper.

I'll sure never know now
Will not meet the owner
But all of the stories
Must surely go on

One piece in West Gloucester
One in North Dakota
The super-eight camera
The glass covered table.

A room full of clothing
Like bodies discarded
The person within it
In another place now

I can't help but wonder
Is this what the end brings?
Our earth suits discarded,
While some look and wonder

And price all our bodies
"There is a small tear here;
So would you take twenty?
I'll need all new cushions"

Three into one
one from three
what does it mean?

The face of a child in
the face of a man?
Am i missing the mark?
Why can't i understand?

Am I talking with you?
Or with myself?
Is it God that speaks?
Is He somewhere else?

And how can it be,
That You're here with me?
When You're in a million
Missions and churches?

Maybe I'm just scatter-brained
But I would think that
You'd be a bit strained
And a mite too busy to talk with me
Just a confused servant staring out to see

And what am I hoping?
What ship could come in?
Could it be a barge?
Take away all my sins?
Or a freighter of answers for these tangled thoughts?
Answers to questions
It seems I forgot.

"Version .2"

Sea Birds, as plentiful as
The bubbling carbonation of
Coca Cola Classic

Beach grasses, home to multiple ocean creatures
The brownstones and ghettos of the marine set
Spread out as if it were
"A thousand points of life",
Or the spilled, upright french fries
Of men much bigger than me
With bigger potatoes.

The pulsing rhythm of wind on water
Perfectly timed archetype of the hip hop beats
The same yet different;
One made by the creation, and one by the creator.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I,
I took the one less traveled by"

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