Thursday, June 21, 2018

The Worst

Cover the mold
of crusty experience
with a blanket.  Blunt
the accusing finger.

Let's hope the best
is yet to come.

That was a then-ago,
the old self torn down
by numerous literary
reconstructions, fresh

The door slams shut
with such force that
the glass cracks, a space
I will not enter again.

Something like a new 
person has grown up in
the corner, just out of focus,
blurry face,  new purpose.


spiral, down, further.
The text and image denote
an image,
lines of the figure sucked
into vortex.

Like political debate,
like the grave.  Swirls
of experience line up
around him.  

Large-eyed, he is moving
ever down, past what
used to be, reality
bent by the light.


And did you know
that beneath the polite
surface I have polished,
another, more critical
person hides?

It is not that I am
harboring a fine sense
of disdain.  It is simply
that I have learned the space
between mind and mouth

and how to use it.

One does not wear one's
heart on the outside,
one does not breathe each
bit of air externally.

There are organs of idea,
ontology, and performances
that are best held in check
for polite conversational


Can you place
the smile in a dark closet?
I hardly think so.

It is a clap on the back,
devoid of that awkward
patting that suggests:

Will this contact end?

Cutting Corners

The town used to seem
immense, sprawling.  We
were not aware of the way
road connected to road.

Directions switched in the crisp
February air, images from
a few years ago, shops now
erased by the accumulation
of months, building up the way
snow kisses distant mountains.

Perhaps it is the vantage 
of a hotel room on the eighth
floor, overlooking the concrete
landscape, hemmed in by
those mountains, that finally 
reveals our true navigation.

JD DeHart

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...