FROM THE PLACE CALLED AGING

I have noticed a diminished capacity of sorts. My capacity to not look backwards at the--I dunno--the rough spots and hard memories has been eroded and I have spent months doing nothing. Not doing nothing in a sit frozen trying to stop time from moving back or fore; I ain't that good, but no writing, little thinking no curiosity over whether I have spent my time in the ways most beneficial.

I should have answered the queries that came but I simply had nothing to say. A thank you probably would have sufficed and I am sorry for not even that reply. But I am not dead yet, at least so I have convinced myself. So with the lack of interest in writing new work when I have a ton of shit, years worth, in need of editing I am presenting this old/new edit piece. I will hopefully find this a fulfilling endeavor worthy of my friends time.

I love you and Thank you.

THE UNWANTED CHILDREN OF GOD

In the camp where the unwanted children of God

live they stay in tents under the plastic sheets

sealed using that fix all—duct tape.

Keeping dry and eating food

they found,

bought with saved coins

or on occasion

took using the coupon of

a finger tip discount.

We, those of us

with a house and bank account

that daily is victimized

by bank rates

equal to financial rape

look at them

and see freaks and fools

with no sense of values

or ambition other than to get to the next place

where there is a bit of warmth,

human or fire made.

Either works equally well.

They look at us and see us as we are.

We are behemoth battle ships,

before we were born

we were out dated

our usefulness as cannon fodder

soon replaced

for a new world gone crazy

for remote control war.

Now we are coated in peeling paint

and rusting where the welds once held.

Tied side by side in graveyard ports

there is no more call to sail hard

except to war against another

that is forced to stay motionlessness

at our side because of the

moorings of rope

of family and possessions

and the hope of the possibility

for wealth we are unable to leave behind.

The unwanted children of God

I think

are those who do not refuse

to wear their feet out

looking for freedom

or ways to loose the mooring ropes.

Them who are

pierced,

tattooed,

dreadlocked

and wandering on back roads unpaved

towards a future they have not decided yet.

It is them,
them—who are the ones
God covets above all others
for they at least try to find that spirit in a leaf,
with companions free to come and go
on an open road, headed somewhere away.
Anywhere away from the foolish ideas
that once meant a kind of freedom and comforting:
but now are a torture to the bound.
and are nothing more than a reminding
of how we too were once called
the unwanted children of God.

© M Durfee
10/12/11
®3/4/19