JB Hogan

Along roadway power lines
memories echo still,
memories old but not forgotten,
resonating in the chill air.

Memories once alive, vibrant,
expectant of expected dreams;
casual dreams desired,
deferred until tomorrow in the
pleasure of today.

On time’s cusp then,
no thought of future,
not counting yesterdays.

But time became an arrow,
shot hard and fast and true,
shaft piercing promises –
point slicing plans and dreams.

New choices then required, unwanted,
new accomodations, new work.

There’s no place
I really want to be,
unless my inner sanctumuary
responds to mitty smitten
dreams of
president of country
hidden island fisherman
radical righter
riddicolous wronger
in the wringer, or,
saint on a cross
but then,
never
a red cross,
oh, no,
not a
dead, red,
double,
cross.

Foul stench of earth and sky
entwined with rotten-cored worm-like brains
to form a more perfect love.

Laboring years beneath weight of war,
in jungle, street, and prison yard,
the mute wanderer attempts to disengage
from world’s endless wheel.

Valiantly searching,
endlessly groping in the
dark recesses of the 5 a.m. world,
the tall lady with the abscessed hip
is caught in the tight web of her own
confusion.

Intestinal flames rage within her,
fires scorch and sear her,
fires freely fanned and nurtured
by the off and on fluttering
of the butterfly’s wings
and the rapid swooping movement of the
falcon.

Surrounded by the harvest of an
eternal thoughtless bounty,
her rusted shores are battered
by an angry dying sea.
A sea that blinds and cripples