Monday, January 30, 2017

WHO GENERATES FOG--WE DO



GENERATING FOG

We stand on the shore.
The fog rises
overpowering
sights of the distant coast,
our fading distant memory.

Places behind all who sail the sea here
on winds of hope, home fires obscured

The air, our life,
is slowly engulfed,
becomes heavy,
too thick to breathe.

Sounds from the cloaked sea, muted, muffled,
opaque vapors enhancing executing movement

closer to us,
to the mind.
No more
do we light our side,
blow the horns to warn,

there is nothing left them sailing unredeemed upon the sea
or to us but the slow roll of construction, a cursed drowning

© M Durfee
1/29/17

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

DON'T THINK DON'T FEEL DON'T LIVE



GROWING COMES AT EVERY DUSK

Dusk rising on a world
earning a blanket of night.
Places where light
does not seed well in the passageways.
Moon made shadows are not meant to hide
but to abet the living done in them.
The alleys where time is spent outside
looking for a way in;
age is power they think.
It is not.

Deep shadows signal a start,
a beginning of habits
that monsters will die or detox from.
Winds sweep the aggregate rock into
faces finding that stones do hurt,
that dirt chokes.
Feel every insult served in darkness.
It is easier to escape control in
a fading place, a disappearing place where
mendicants are only allowed emerge or die.

Rolling dice and tossed cards
become sextant and chart.
The spectator place
where crowds gather
to have their indifferent amusement;
where cheering gathers its velocity
in the broken brick venturi.
Hilarity is looted in arenas of conspiracy,
cons, piracy, loot gathered from the weak
in the dun way to withering age.

Twilight full of feelings, hard and soft.
Neither passage nor escape
is negotiated with words in alleys.
Fists, knives, guns; pubic hair changes happen;
 them not able to give blood spilling it anyway
in every stab, every blow, every bullet.
Life is made behind the dust bins
where anxiety shreds clothes
and a virgin’s promise never meant to be kept.
is forgotten in a moment of moans and fast grinding.

Stolen
time
trying
to
feel
good
about
something,
anything
real.


© M Durfee
1/16/17

Monday, January 9, 2017

CONCRETE WITHOUT MORTAR



JUDGMENT SO HARD PAVEMENT CRUMBLES

The footprints of weighty ideas trailed in under muted light marched past my door. The gray pebbled pavement is cracked in a line stretching from past to present. Tree root lifted flags trip up the blind and unthinking in equal measure. Nosebleeds are common. The cement is painted by them until the wind comes to clean the loosened blood dust of thoughts once smooth, once relevant.   

I saw in a single bleak moment realities, named for explosions, alphabet, and time; generations each considered failures. Each broken as the cement, each weakened differently by the stink of chemically fogged clouds that blur the light of knowledge. Smog disguised ideas of wasted humans with pocketed humanity choking trees, weeds, and other thoughts.

Stepping to my gate, not a quaint pre-color movie picket gate, but one of modern steel security on rollers with passcode gadgets. Would that I were allowed a moat, a bridge, a dragon of fiery temperament. “Security is safety” I am told by them picking their thoughts and their bloody snouts from the cracked failed pavement. “There is no safety in ease or security in walls” I say.

The crumbling sidewalks reach well past any reality now. We see but do we learn, do we understand? We fight and sear the thoughts of them not near enough to us, to our comforts, to our way? There was a chance, long ago I think, but the path of broken cement already trails well past gates, understanding moved off in a choking smog of time to the irrelevant now tomorrow.

© M Durfee
1.6.2017