Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
Man goes 118mph in a 50mph zone
Things are often better than what the newspaper says about them;
There was a moment when he felt invincible, almost invisible
As he passed the first cop car who timed him at 118 mph and
Decided to give chase, to fill the night with the shriek of siren;
They never understand that nights like these need flight, even
On these backroads, going nowhere, a few beers deep into
The darkness of late night, it just seems right, even the early
Morning eggs him on; cars are built for this, engines need to roar,
Need to feel their destiny fulfilled, the manufacturers’ suggested
Retail speed, even if only for a short time, times just like this one
Wandering these anonymous roads, the blank stare of dark houses,
Of endless trees, like ghosts speeding by on either side, begging
Him to race, to save face, to make his mark, even alone it seems
Monumental, and now it becomes public, 118 in a 50 zone in print,
But they missed it all, the feel of it, the wind, the wheels, the curves
The straightaways, the darkness all around him -- finally taking notice.
That friendly street, that comfy corner
Get generalized now, like the ones we see
So often on the news, yellow police tape
Stretched, fluttering, various lights flashing,
Blue and red, police huddled in small groups
Discussing details of what happened and
What will happen now, now that the body
Is gone, except for the marks they drew
On the sidewalk, victims leave shadows
Of themselves, like this briefest reminder,
And so the hours of talking and measuring
Begin, details become important we know
From our ample training on endless TV
Police shows, but this time it’s nearby, on
That street we hung out on so often as kids,
On a corner we waited for friends on, and
Never guessed the violence in it all, the danger
Living around us; late night, early morning
Two people arguing, till one shot the other
And now that friendly street and that comfy
Corner are theirs, forever haunted, forever
A crime scene, yellow tape fluttering, lights
Flashing, groups gathering, measuring it all,
Like we see every night on the national news.
After that, What?
“What if?” “And so?” “And then what?” Partial questions,
Like these, lay claim to us, define us, and set so much of
What we do in motion, we imagine outcomes, sequences
And consequences, one thing leading to another and then
Another, dominoes falling, tap one and watch them all fall;
They bring on a kind of preemptive guilt to stop us in
Our literal and/or figurative tracks and plan ahead
Foresee the aftermath of this or that; we know how the
Future works, experienced it in our past: the phone call
We made or didn’t make, the truth we admitted when
Remaining silent would have worked better, the turn
We took with that bridge to cross, the storm warnings
We didn’t heed, didn’t ask “what if?” as we set out and
Learned the answer to “and so?” and “and then what?”
into the music
as the wine flows
and the night grows darker.
she captures the essence of life
in her tiny body
and leads me along
with every twist and turn
on the dance floor.
into the rhythm
in some kind of trance
escaping from what constantly
holds her back
discovering the enlightenment
we all endlessly desire.
tattoos. piercings. scars.
what a turn on:
tattoos. piercings. scarification.
there is nothing you wouldn't do
to release whatever is torturing you.
as I explore the depths
of your body
I read the story it tells.
all your anxiety.
your pain. your loves.
it all is written out
like the desires you have
it shines brighter
than the red in your hair.
your message rings clear
and I know every feeling
you express to me is true.
do you trust me with your soul?
a beautiful stranger.
a beautiful stranger
dancing to the band
a enchanted vision casting your hoodoo
enthralling me with your movements
pulling me further into your spell.
a beautiful stranger
a six foot redheaded bombshell
motioning me closer
with the pulsating of your body
holding me hostage in a prison
from which I have no desire to escape.
a quiet heroine.
she writes love songs
sitting at the piano
while I look on with drink
watching her fingers and toes
work at the tools
as she belts out the vocals
for only my ears to perceive.
she's my safeguard-
a quiet heroine
wrapping me in a protective blanket
keeping me tepid
as I fight thru this world
breaking the borders
of the freedom I speak
in my poesy
trying to make it
in a society of literary giants
writing their academic poetry
leaving out the reality
of the hatred
floating to the surface
from the bottom
of this burning hell
we live and die in every day.
she writes love songs
to the sunlit mornings
and birds singing in flight
holding everything together
as I slowly succumb to the demons
that rip my soul apart.
he spends most of his time
locked in his room
hidden away from people-
the crowds that he fears.
sheltered away from the outer world.
his mind is weakened by the pills
and his body by the booze.
no one misses him
no one cares.
he is a ghost haunted by himself
and the pains that plague him
day in-day out.
when he leaves this place
nobody will know
and as his gravestone is consumed
by moss and debris
he will decay alone
with the peace he could never find
on this dark and ill-starred earth.
stop looking for solace
in the normal people.
cease relying on the innocence
of the middle class.
the gardens overflow with the dead
and the newborn.
the cave may seem like a dark
and endless grave
but you will find life
if you search hard enough
avoiding the obvious places.
Keith Wesley Combs
Reality had second thoughts
as fantasy entwined itself around
perceptions triggered by emotions.
Smallest one so near
venturing toward the tallest
that seemed closer still.
Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...