Friday, July 29, 2016



I step outside and see the lightning.
It is dry and there is no formal resound
of thunder only a pulse of light
dancing with itself among the molecules
of this steamy atmosphere where rain once fell.

There is no more awe of air
or all that happens above my pay grade
only the grave sight resignation
that much beyond my porch
is far from my control.

I have walked among both
the rain drops and the tombstones
I am touched not by either;
they have become oddities to me. 

Water, undrinkable, comes from above,
eroding the stone reminders
of a person once living
now decaying ‘neath the marker,
‘cept by etching, unremembered.

Such is my own plan,
to be undrinkable
to be unremembered.
My own nothingness will be
a solace in my soulless being.

The lightening glows for a moment
then disappears
I do like the way of quiet lightening.

© M Durfee

Monday, July 25, 2016



Today I may go shoot guns.
I haven’t held one in my hand
for almost a week
—7 days of discipline?
just too hot and humid
to wear the belted jeans
I need to hold the holsters.

Guns are heavy,
without the belt
my shorts fall and show my ass
to a world that needs no more ass.
There is enough ass
already running rampant in this era
without me adding unintentionally to it.

My palms do wait the weight though,
hope for cooler air to comfort them.

© M Durfee

Wednesday, July 20, 2016


I walk barefoot down my path. Treading directly on the shards of shattered dreams and thrown away hearts. Broken concrete and rusting girders replaced the forest foliage of many decades ago. There was no war here, wars aftermath is often rebuilt as soon as the peace is made. This dystopian dysfunction is simply a result of the neglect of generations of moved out, removed long ago from the life of "this has become such and so," but not on.

My feet no longer bleed when cut, one needs a heartbeat for that, only a fool leaves their heart intact in the places I wander. It is my thought that powers me, my ability to see and remember a well spun past that has moved future forward to this time of hate and insipid ignorance of man, of people once here, but gone now; yet forever shooting fiery arrows of thoughts they have no honest understanding of, across the wall their past generations built trying to maintain a once was, that can never be regained.

Nothing but nothing can be changed from outside the nightmare we waking walk in. Few are they who are not blinded by the darkness, few are they fearless enough to confront what lay within their own soul.

Those not of the downfall refuse to see. Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance comes so easily to them still kissed with a job, family, hope, depth enough in the pond to freely swim. When the water evaporates they will begin to see their lives were not lived well because of their work done successfully.

God’s approval does not matter, only the one with a neck to nod, matters. Kings, presidents, dictators, parliaments, congresses of peoples. Them at the party sharing cocktails and chewing on the remains of them not invited to the soiree, have nodding necks. Thus it has ever been. Some climb the rubble piles easily for they have created them to benefit themselves, their progeny for a hundred generation out.

Leave God, be God; and man, be man. The two divorced themselves so many millennia ago that they are not even distant neighbors now. You may know God, and God may know you but how often are you asking that being to recreate a time before your sins separated you? What is sin, what are your sins? I have no knowledge of sin. I cannot ask forgiveness for a condemnation some other man said I am doomed to.

A utopian frontier now foreclosed to dystopian panoramas them left out, those whose hearts and dreams litter the path ahead of me. Men of every size shape and color in work clothes, overalls, uniforms, and 3 for the cost of 1 suits, climbing on the piles of rubble seeking gain that never comes to them. These men are dead already even though their fingers still bleed from the climbing.

Women dressed in burqas, Kentucky Derby hats, babushkas, climbing their own rubble piles seeking relief from the pain of the children they have put in the ground, pains remorseless cessation that never comes to them. God’s tears do not matter, they do not water the earth as sacred, only more blood can do that. Women’s tears simply wash the blood away making more room for more carnage residue.

The rubble piles in a gray world of shattered dreams and crushed hearts, the only place where all are upon them are equal. It is a place where few are bold enough to enter willingly to see what we, all of we, have caused to exist on a planet formed for our comfort and learning. My mind is now void of anything but the places my feet tread and walking, walking so long on shards, and shatters, has made me see the unthinkable has become real. Too real.

© M Durfee