SICK SAD SOLID
All of the things above are heavenward fleeing :
the time of the now is a sickening mess and I want
nothing new planted for fear it will grow. Outside
some gunslinger's house on a Pennsylvania roadway,
I am slung over the wheels of a car - the gang he was
part of lived here, hiding out, until capture. Now it's all
nothing but a note on a roadside plaque. I enter the house
looking, but I can't get in - so many ghosts are crowding.
-
People don't listen to me when I tell them about myself.
They laugh, or run off. Frankly, it's painful but here's the deal:
I am not here for you; my visible eyes are but marbles, the
things you think you see. I am spirit, enforced in a rubric so
you can recognize. I don't care if you do or not, though I
wish you would. I am ten thousand years old, as if that
number really means anything at all. I have seen a million
candles go out in a lifetime of light. I am indifferent to
darkness yet hate disillusion and lies.
-
The ditch-digger's ditch is nearing its bottom.
There is no deeper cut to go. Nearby is a stream,
running circles around everything near. The moss grows,
the lichens, the mushrooms and stems. How sad it all
seems in this dark and dreary churchyard in a cavern
by the wall. One hundred years later, here it is, all.
I will keep my quiet in the peace of this place.
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