For The Bus...
By Jeff Sloan ...waiting ...waiting ...waiting The loneliness in lineups like removing all the seeds but missing one and it falls into the lemonade and you say "fuck" under your breath because now you have to fish it out with a digit stir the liquid sweet and sour and wait for the bus. Good friends aren't made while waiting the anticipation of the original spoils the wonderment of meeting a fellow in rain boots and long coat to hell with it he doesn't seem very interesting and anyway I'm still waiting. The weather inside the shelter is never right it's either a sauna or a deep freezer either way you end up feeling like a nun and who would put their ass on a seat made from chewing gum? I'll keep to my feet rub them when I get out of these boots at home when I'm done waiting. ...waiting ...raining ...complaining The slowness of my watch is an insult to childhood Christmas' I wanted them to linger but they slipped through my fingers like egg whites when my Grandma would ask me to separate them for her pies we made them in her art deco kitchen with a gas range there was a lot of waiting then too but unlike life and bus stops Grandma at least let me lick the beater sticks while I stood with her and waited. ...waiting ...waiting ...waiting To see the doctor so many outdated magazines and books with crayon wavy lines scribbles and missing pages try to breathe shallowly the germs won't get you if you hardly breathe A wire and beads game bored out of my mind and my throat is aching because I can no longer swallow against the pain But that's the thing about doctors they love to keep us all waiting. The traffic isn't that bad at least there is radio that gem of the olden goldies it sure beats the dvd player I prefer the radio there's something about music that marches time faster sing with all my heart I'll get where I'm going this way belting out a melody singing so sweetly while I sit and wait to catch bus. *** Ever Yours' J.S.
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Can the blue light of a twilit room Return childhood to the fold Where my life pleated and ripped Tore through my heart as my Imagined reality was consumed By the isolation and hatred Of every well meaning Christian I knew? The sturdy wood frame of an old bed Returns me to the world of my youth. My bedroom was a dream place Where heroes walked And dragons died Great ferocious battles were fought In shady grey carpeted lines Army against army Man against men Me and the world Showered in moonbeams From the thrown curtain window Overlooking a solitary hill Where a boy; once happy, had played. The shuffle of soft goose down Cannot comfort the itch below my skin It is the course teachings of life Rough become my face Ride a sheet and make for slumber A concert of crickets beneath the silence Like the songs the boys mother would sing deep and embracing as the arms of octagon sleep Fold over my torso as arms once did As it rises and falls Softly, still despite the harms And the paranoid danger that implodes my thoughts Eyes close Transport the inner mind My death brings peace upon the mountain. *** Ever yours' J.S. |