D. Avraham ~ Musings

The zombie apocalypse is upon us!
They’re all around
They’re everywhere
Those strange creatures
With the dull blank stare

It is alive!
See how it twitches and twitters,
But only the thumbs

Don’t let it get me
I don’t want to be hooked up
I don’t want to become
Dependent upon those
Machines

Hurry,
Pull the plug
And Live.
Really live.

Drat, it’s wireless.

She had smooth lines

Gliding asymmetrically

Angling and spinning

Into

A curved symmetry

Of smoothness aligned.

.

He was edged in

A curve

Breaking sharply

Into

Hardened folds

Of sharp distinctions

.

Their threads

Twisted and

Tangled

Into

A knotted weave of

Of limits

Misled.

.

They fell like Rain

Drops of Truth

Full of Life and Promise

But

The untilled ground was

A Hard Packed Crust

So

They just Beaded

And ran off

Into

Deep Dark

Pools of Despair

That were

Littered

With Shards of

Broken Vessels

He came on the scene

Near the end of the third chapter

Naturally and spontaneously constructed

To find balance

And give meaning

To her chaotic and frenzied narrative.

Perfectly kempt,

Though suitably ruffled

With a measure of ambiguity

And the Mysterious

To keep up the Intrigue.

An enduring character

He seemed.

.
But her muse waned

And he staled

Cracked and flaked

Into bits and pieces

Of redundancy

That was soon

Edited out of her existence

.

The plot thins

To a taught sheen

Stretched and pulled

Over the surface of

Mounds and

Mounds of

Mediocrity.

I left a bookmark

On your page

And was surprised

To find

Since my last visit

The plot had shifted

.

I marked my place

And skipped ahead

A little

Turn of a page or two

But upon my return

All the story lines had tangled

.

I had put it down

It’s true

I got busy with,

Oh, I’m not sure what, but

I just always expected

I could pick up

In that same place

Where I left off

.

Couldn’t you

Have found a way

To suspend time and space

Like the bookmark

I had left for you.

Only his hands

Gnarled and thin

Like wrinkled tattered

Weathered broadcloth

Showed

From beneath

The starch white

Cuffs of a

Pressed Polyester

Shirt

.

Only his hands

Quick and light

Like bright dancing

Flames of light

Expressed

From behind

The stark pallid

Edge of a

Gruff and hard

Mein

.

Only his hands

Nimble and fleet

Like cool clean

Water cascading

Rushing

From between

The chiseled stone

Wall of a

Cold and cruel

Carcass

.

Only his hands

Betrayed him.

The old man

In the dark grey coat

Looked at

The overcast sky

Heaved a sigh

And rocked back

On the faded green

Park bench

To provide

Momentum

For the climb

To his feet

.

He sighed

It wasn’t a sigh of grief

Or of pain.

Not of satisfaction

Or contentment

But of
Contemplation

And preparation

.

The old man

In the dark grey coat

Planted his

Crooked feet

Heaved a sigh

And rocked forward

On the faded green

Park bench

And stood

Slowly

Not quite erect

Not quite bent.

.

He sighed

It wasn’t a sigh of bitterness

Or of fatigue

Not of weariness

Or hopelessness

But of reminiscence

And remembrance

.

The old man in the grey coat

Straightened his

Sagging shoulders

Heaved a sigh

And turned towards

The faded brown

Path

That led towards

A place that

Was once called

Home

And sighed.

“Does she work?”

Asked

The pretty teller

As she

Offered

A packaged smile

That

Came with all the

Forms

And Files

She slid

Across

The counter.

.

“Does she work?”

He thought

Of

Dishes piled

High

And the line

Of clothes

Never ending

And the way

She always

Spoke a little

Too loudly

Even when

There wasn’t

The reverberating

Din

Of children in

The background.

.

“Does she work?”

She asked

Standing in

The sterile room

With florescent glare

Her temperature controlled

Along with the air

By the hushed

Tones of

Muzak

Caressing

Her ear.

.

“Does she work?”

The question stuck

Like mud

On the freshly painted

Walls of the foyer

That she scrubbed

Clean

Only to

Find

An artist’s rendition

Of the Metro

In greens and reds

And so much

Blue

Swept under

The carpet.

.

“Does she work?”

She asked.

.

“No,” he answered

And, knew

It was a lie.

You are the poet

And I am the poem

Compose me a Salvation

.

You are the dancer

And I am the dance

Step me towards redemption.

.

The instrument fades before the artist

And is realized.

.

I am the Song

Waiting to be Sung.

.

.

Lazy dogs with a toothless grin

Bound and gagged to a chained linked fin

They growl and scowl and foul the air

But they don’t really care

As long as they gets their three meals square