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

CONTEMPLATING EUTHANASIA-GET ME OUTTA HERE

WATCH THE CLOUDS THEY TELL OF THE WINDS

Lips whisper creating winds over every little thing, while trash dances ever  with the speed of the breeze always singing an ear scraping Waites tune as it prances down the broken concrete pavement, headed a million miles away where people hold their breath hoping the coming trash arriving meets their untimely but swift death. Racing on the breezes of thought some prey on trash to keep their communities spotlessly focused on acceptable trash type.

Strong God trusted green breezes blow mightily past all the slum trash, men of means have discarded for generations. Crap that lay between immigrant shore breaches and private no go zone no green breezes beaches.. Men are garbage in riptide, wind shear, hurricanes that start on a New York City Street. We like the smell of our unclean ready to stink up every howl of disaster, until the under tow of guessing lottery numbers, spits out a fortune.

Trash though is trash even if the breeze is one of fortune and not inheritance. Men it seems are eveready drumming, always willing to die for an anchor in the storm, even if it pays less than death. The breeze, green and Godly only must needs call us lucky to have survived long enough to die.

Simple Joe a working dude did everything right every midnight as he moved that from there to here punched it and moved it from here to there, again and again, shift after shift, day after day, month after month, year after year, decade after decade until the chain was cut. A new wind born robo Joe in, easily replacing what once was human. Old Joe, made of imperfect flesh and blood was told to hitch a windstorm ride and get the hell out of his life. The bank and county fought over every last bit of his wealth, including his wife, until Joe got too old to stand against the winds of a system that outweighed him and as ever is stacked against men of loyalty. He had no second thought when he expressed his American right and blew his no longer wanted brains out, such became his life.

Lunch breaks the God green trusted breezes told the mean men, were too costly for the factory that chewed up flesh and blood ‘til nothing was left that resembled workingmen only the cadaver of them once young able to compete, still able to actually, but the lie born on God Trusted breezes that burned down the nation’s best interest as the price of peace with others. No one thought anything of it until they finally discovered the winds of Never A Fair Trade Agreement meant they too were like old Joe, not robo’d out of work simply displaced by them who lived better making $5 a day.  

In God We Trust, a howling wind those words. The question I am always asking me, is God green, the same color as greed? I will never know for it is an exclusive church prays that not only for the best rates but humbly for the fear of man—to continue to increase to hurricane levels pushing green tsunami wealth robbing walls of consumption out over a sick frightened population who really do miss consumption. DEBT BEFORE DIGNITY our battle cry resurrected. “Blow me” says I, the words of insurrection.

7.21.2015
M Durfee

YOU KNOW YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WHEN A SIBERIAN WINTER IS WARMER THAN DETROIT

IT IS SLIGHTLY COLDER THAN YESTERDAY BUT NOT AS COLD AS TOMORROW

Fucking idiots. 20 degrees Fahrenheit below 0 at the bottom of the mitten where the damned wind pushes it in past the cuff. Fingers no matter how well covered are too much smothered to be of any use to them trying to unlock a car that has a fucking 50/50 chance of starting, strip off the gloves and get the door unlocked, feel the frostbite eating away at the upper layers. Rolled the dice car started after several wheezy attempts. Work called, be nice go in for the one who says she can’t make it because it’s cold, too God damned cold to leave her bed. She, of course has a better lie than that, something about the 4^th of July. Out you go to try to get there where you make your wages filling pages taking messages for the management that didn’t bother to even wake up from their slumber much less dress in ten Michelin Man lumbering layers to just get out the door. Dreams of their guaranteed salary fill their fucking heads. Makes no difference though to the fucking idiots who will for a dime’s sake keep pouring more and more and always more shit into the atmosphere. Hey who here doesn’t like the youtube video of Rhode Island sized bergs calving off the Antarctic ice sheet? Fucking idiots, my kids worry about not having Social Security in 40 years, I worry about there not being 40 dirty damn years left on the planet so humans can man it.

© M Durfee

2.2.2015