nothing concluded 161

eleven days
without so much
as a thought this way
that was unnecessary
approaching three years
 
they were lying from
the get go
nothing concluded
and so many perish
still no explanation
 
only questions
how many sons and daughters
how many more
are they all worth the lie
the next one too
 
arriving soon enough
time to think
pure freedom even if
the leader of the republic
wants to be a dictator
 
the constitution won't allow
for an imperial take over
how will he attempt
to over step his bounds
forget what you have been told
 
they admit they lie
their desires override
reality and they hope everyone
is busy that day
and doesn't notice
 
not paying attention
until a small child
points and notices that
the president isn't wearing any clothes
nothing concluded...

nothing concluded 160

the tenth year

of the five liners

thoughts stuck

between other

random notes

remember those days

just after turning twenty-one

trying to understand

what some of it meant

ten years later now

my own cup of coffee

in the house my grand father

built and died in

nothing concluded

continuing the pensive

behavior in the basement

just as hands on

just not as useful

ten years ago things were

different

though similar enough

that changes were made

both simple and subtle

ten years later

wishing the obvious

what I know now

knew it then

wish I knew something

self-absorbed

or just absorbed

into all the people and things

that are closest to me

the five liners of thought

how many pages before something

nothing concluded...

basement rattle

down here in the homemade cloud
alone door shut and the dog barks on the other side
new year thoughts split like wood under ax
first person poetry heard all around
nothing new just constantly improved upon
time reels back a punch to the throat
layer after layer building like a carpenter in Brockton
one foot sideways 24 north or south dead end highway
go around instead out the back door
around the house in through the front
interrupted poetry broken by time lapses
who could tell with that hell of a basement rattle
the clock faces stares at eyes watery
from the cloud bubble transaction
transformation into first thought
progeny a sort of metamorphosis
no eye witness eye in smoke
in lungs in the coffee basement rattle
too loud and someone shuts the door
always a little cooler downstairs even in the summer
humidity or cold winter freeze
sister gone south to the equator
the sun will cook her skin
getting lost in the green felt like this before
sitting at this pool table as a desk
too right or to write regardless
day or night said it all before...