Tuesday, January 31, 2012

in the parking lot


in my mind I'm reaching,
one last beer way back in my fridge,
and I'm not even home,
and then it occurs to me,
on this restless, twisting ball,
under exquisite light,
from fractured stars,
in airless black space,
hurled into oneself,
the-thrown-back-into-oneself,
this majestic but wounded mystery,
lost in the snowy mists are,
my vain efforts,
my empty hopes,
the physically impossible,
which limits my dreams,
rendering a desperate soul,
lonely, broken, helpless,
sleeplessly turning,
through the night's steady pain,
but in the still dark air,
there is growing,
there is life still,
can I get a drop of,
can I get a taste of,
can I get a swallow of,

freedom,
measured against,
the weight of destiny,

I kick the ice,
and watch it shatter,
I feel my thoughts,
recoil and scatter,
a singer on the radio says "courage didn't come,"

and that it doesn't matter.


















4 comments:

Old Ollie said...

Gird up your loins, get a solid base, grip your ice scraper.

Be the ice-king of the parking lot.

Oh and keep cranking the Hip.

temporal rooms said...

you have the taste
you get the drop
destiny is not ours
but freedom surely is.

you know the Red Green line.

good write H.P.

~robert

Fisheye Lens said...

A prescient piece, Dox. Yesterday, my car was buried in a sheet of ice as glare as a sheet of glass. It took Bomber and I, and finally a good samaritan, almost half an hour to free my Mazda.

An awesome philosophical and poetic adumbration on such wintry dilemmas, although I wasn't waxing poetic (or philosophical) in the midst of mine, but rather profane.

hulia said...

Thanks...sad I missed you guys on Sunday. Blame the barfage. That is one dank looking parking lot. Loved the Olympian.