Mind Travels Ten
THE MIRROR ON MY WALL
The sea tells me
It’s time for it
Because there is
No time left.
The waves hint at the ease
The waters enter the nose
I respond: “Death is a poem not pros.”
The barrel of the gun
Never becomes your eye or tongue
Mute like its six or twenty kin
It promises quickness
But not without pain or memories
In its noise and flame I claim
“All mistakes and failures remain.”
“So what remains?”
The Hospice wants and explanation,
“What is left? What can you recall
From all your mental movies?”
How to explain to one
Who locked tight his or her box
The instant they could walk?
They’re all on that vanity
As long as you do not turn
They do not lessen Death’s finality
Or soften my most major regrets
My overflowing file assures me
This end is more interesting than
The one racing to embrace you
A SWEEP OF THE FORE FINGER
Once the majority believed
God had the whole world in His hands.
Yesterday I realized a Used Car Salesman
Held his whole world in his hands
Which made me wonder
Is that world he clutches real?
Does he revel himself honestly
When he contacts created characters,
Becomes immersed in fiction,
Mingles with fantasies and embraces illusions?
What does he see when he sleeps?
I christen him John, do not add a Doe
Long, long ago if John went to Iceland
Back home friends would ask,
“How was your trip?”
John had fifty words or less
Before they were back in their boxes
Now he videos two hundred photos
Ten thousand ‘friends’ devour them.
Maybe John didn’t go anywhere
Snipped a shot here and there
While sitting across from me
At the local coffee shop
Waiting to see if he is Salesman of the Week
I want to say, “Three or four worlds ago
We all could be Strangers on the Train
Totally void of our neighbor’s Bio
And he or she as ignorant of ours
So anything went from total lies
To total candor … A mobile confessional
Now John confesses, confounds of prevaricates
To how many strangers? … Hundreds …
Thousands? Couple both of these with an of
The zeros grow you know
And how many of those are desperate for the ‘truth’?
Starved for intimacy, acceptance and hope?