by on April 14, 2010 :: 0 comments

A meat grinder of an existence
where flesh is ripped
from sinew and bones,
bled clean
and packaged for sale
to the local gentry
then fried, boiled or barbequed
for consumption
and tasty conversations
about Dick and Jane,
natural and man-made,
and how pretty the geraniums look
in the windowsill box
overlooking the white picket fenced yard.

The beast
murdered for beauty?

Too many contradictions,
capitulations for me
and so many others
throughout history,
but lucky Billy Pilgrim
experienced unstuckness
in time and space
in his own meager existence
in perspective
of the world’s beauty
and ugliness in ways
I could never imagine
– or can I?

Who’s to say that we don’t traverse
through dimensions four
in our fondest dreams
and nightmares

In truth
and occasional realities
I too travel from place to place
in a Kerouac lifestyle
from Paris, to Rome and Zurich
plus places in between
like so many jazz musicians of the 50’s
looking for a home away from
birth’s brutal scars
of racism, cynicism, ethnocentrisms
while searching for a sliver
of a moment where time stops
on the mountain tops
and air crystal and clear
can breeze through my hair
what’s left of it
as I close my eyes
and imagine…

Aliens transporting me
from a Nazi concentration camp
of a work life, a marriage of convenience,
who train me to jump back and forth
from linear existence
so I can see where my earliest journey began
and will ultimately end.

I’d click the heels
of my ruby slippers
to my childhood
where others worried for me
and took it upon themselves
to guide me, educate me
in ways of morality, civil actions,
and saintly rewards for performing the rituals
that society deemed important
for young men of a certain era.

I’d reply days
with Pop on the city streets
shagging high flying tennis balls
or chasing down line drives
watching out for traffic
north, south west, east
and ankle-breaking curbs.
Afterwards, we’ll eat pie
mozzarella and mushrooms
or just simple sliced bread
dipped in a pot of steaming tomato sauce
the most delectable food imaginable
for both of us
on Saturday nights
and wait for the real homemaker’s
safe return home from work
and dinner made the old fashioned way.

Oh I’d circle back time
to beach picnics,
swimming the currents deep
though I’d avoid
the near drowning episode
when my dear old dad
ran roughshod, barefoot, on the jetty
breaking nearly every bone in both feet
to dive in and save my ten year old life.

I’d move on to high school
as heartthrob of so many girls,
and I’d sneak back
into their adolescent crushes
and find my way into father’s Cadillac’s
backseats, front seats, doesn’t matter
but then . . . where would I be
if not brokenhearted again
and by myself
when sure victories
ended with certain defeats?

College adventures
in activism, political and social,
degrees, advanced ones a plenty
engagements in drugs and parties
graduations and college gigs
of renown and glory in printed research
but with life altering car wrecks
that nearly tore off both shoulders
hung only by stretched tendons and shredded muscle
and moments I’d wished I would have jumped
off the dormitory’s highest balcony
ah . . . those were the days.

Like Billy,
who can see his own life end
with a laser gun blast to the back,
perhaps timely visits
to the past
or my ultimate destination
wouldn’t be the most advantageous
for me,
my loved ones
or those I tried to
make love to
for all those unstuck moments
in time
would most assuredly lead me back
to the same conclusions
of where I am
lost in memories
of what should have been
but cannot
ever be again…except in a Kurt Vonnegut fantasy.

Leave a Reply