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.
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.
Angered to enraged,
Exits to exist.
Same to same;
List to list.
While The Stone Arch Bridge looms
Over a foggy flowing
As flotsam floats-
Traverse these tossing translucent currents.
Glinting nigh business lights of St. Anthony Main.
Automobile and bus engines sustain,
Carrying the once open-air pedestrian-
In thin glow street lamps,
Bumping between buildings tall, and stoplights bright.
With snow gathered underfoot below.
Have I missed a step?
Am I still asleep?
Has the logic left?
Oh, to think again… Now I don’t “know”.