Caught in the action;
Kept taut on a rope.
Are you at work?
Are you really sick?
If it is so,
I’ll help you with this.
You don’t feel well,
You feel pretty bad,
I’ll call your business,
The results are back.
May I speak to the boss?
Is ______ in right now?!
Well, let me tell you
They must leave town.
It doesn’t look good,
They’ve tested absolutely sick.
I’m Doctor Terry,
I’ll attest to this.
They should be released,
Purpose: to get better;
Especially in this perfect,
Warm, sunny weather.
Telling it to them straight,
So you can leave work-
It’s worth it to go,
Get from life its full worth.
Trapped in a cubicle walls seeming beautiful;
The wonders are outside, if the truth be told.
Foggy covetous invalids,
leant on glistening balustrades,
with gossamer hangings; bent
blades of grass, enacting a fool’s
calypso in cover of darkness, at
that exact moment, for all gleaming
eyes to witness, as winds stirred
through an open door below.
Fleeting acquaintance which grew like trash
As each fickle feigned word exchange passed,
Few thoughts ring true while coming through
Comprise this changing layered bunch of you.
Thoughts of reading a text by *S. Heaney,
Bits and pieces of dewed Madrid,
With heavy inflections of Hemingway,
Scattered about within. Bull horns
And drink, and women, and sex. Smell
Of skin, fish parts, and molded excrement.
Emitting and emoting the pawing presence
Of death; Protestant and Catholic,
Rebellions over said claims.
There the air held hot, as one without water,
Lacking, in a vast desert, as a drunk’s hung-over
Morning plight, -head-spin, praying for the noise to fast die,
Lavishing in Great Lakes of the mind.
He spoke of letting it go, as in
Sobering up, as in really feeling this event.
He had been fearing the gun holster
And lack of action in present. Admiring the man
Who hand-gripped the cold barrel steel, afraid to notice.
But all those bleeding bulls, and fish debris, and local
Women, and spent shells counted. Dripping their sweetness
On his fingertips, wet, as the spilt thick
Ink of his pen. Language of stink
And movement. Surely he felt a bit
Satisfied as he sipped a beaded glass of beer
In the city center, in the summer, 1969,
In Madrid, as he wrote his free-verse prose. As he
Let his words come alive and go.
The theory of thought
Went out for a walk.
It was there on its own,
It needed naught for a home.
It walked by in due time,
Past the people in line.
When it was asked to come back
It protested with attack;
It hit and it punched,
It scratched and it killed.
It never stopped,
It was horrified and thrilled.
So when thought came back to this present location
It spoke to all those leaders of this great nation.
Thought said, “Use me or lose me, it is very true,”
“I was only here from the beginning to help you.”
Now there is proof for the thinker.
I remember when words had meaning;
A man was only as good as his word.
I thought about this over a conversation,
As my partner’s words were never heard.
Angered to enraged,
Exits to exist.
Same to same;
List to list.