Moving, That Which is Still

I am not still
there is movement
there is life and
potency behind
this exterior,
this trivial
seeming of lassitude

As lassitude seems
trivial against the
great, vast exterior
behind us, this movie
scene of false potency,
this analog of life
where there is movement,
a void of purpose
not much different
from being still,
the negation of any
state of being

Yet, we are beings,
the state of which
we negate with every
florid stillness,
no different than
the thousand generations
who took their
purpose to the void,
lives spent dancing fast
against the likeness
of doom, that potency
proven false by time,
flinging outward into
the vastness of the
great abyss, our
trivial malaise.

Patrick M. Tracy
2/18/12

Poem Published!

Hey, folks.

Yes, I know this blog has been dormant for lo, these many months. My poetry writing mojo
has not been workin' of late. That said, I did get a new poem published. It is called "This Misspent Requiem", and is featured in the January issue of Pens On Fire, the online poetry magazine. I'm pleased to be featured at that site once more, as I have two prior works there.

In any case, should you wish to read this one, it is beyond the following link:

http://pensonfire.com/ptracy.html

Cheers,

Patrick

From Whence the Spirit Grumbles

I called you from
the road

from

someplace far out
in my desolate
little universe
behind the wheel

I was out of audio books
to serve as opiates
and distract me

from

the lack of solace
I was feeling, the
unsatisfactory time
spent, the slipped
gears of a life gone
down into a gully and
disappeared

from

the planet of four in
the morning, chilly
pre-dawn of northern
Nevada

where

cell service is like
the shrunken habitat
of an animal close to
extinction, with wide
places of

nothing; where

I pace in the parking
lot, explaining myself
to your answering
machine

that

you don't know how to
use, and never check,
but only unplug to
get the flashing red
light to abate

that

western ideal of
leaving the disease
alone, so long as the
symptoms will go away
for a while, and
that is good enough
for us

so

my words travel across
the wide, barren places
to ultimately die without
having been heard by
anyone but the bleary
eyed trucker

who

sits on the fender of
an old International
Harvester, slowly
chewing down his second
egg and bacon muffin

while

I confess to machinery
and rail across the
cell tower networks
bouncing my fruitless
words from satellites

until

it comes back around to
the wheel once more, and
the long drive, and the
dreary eventual
destination.

Patrick M. Tracy
9/7/2010