Wednesday, June 07, 2017

Toward the Hollow

 Brought to the point of blessed numbness
and beyond that, to this land of hollow eyes
and slackness of the jaw, of having no thoughts
remaining, no words to say to the passing stranger
upon the street, the impasse of the imbecile whose
very glance causes the sensible to flee, to avoid
that strange company of the hollow and wind-ravaged

Ravaged as plains before the constant wind, of our
own company, we find we must condemn it as strange and
flee, finding more sensible climes and causes, but each glance
put the very lie to it, and we damn ourselves as imbeciles,
this impasse of existing upon the same street every day,
the stranger in the garden, never passing but loitering,
thinking not of the words that may fall from the jaw of the
wise, but only seeking the slack time between events, eyes
turned toward the hollow of a rotting tire in the ditch,
numb, blessed points of a rusted fender brought to stillness
at last

These long and lasting stiffnesses, ramshackle guitars with
rusted frets and pointed, hollow tone upon the turn of every
phrase, the events ill-attended and the few in the crowd slack
and seeking only the cheap beer of a workman's night, never
questioning the sad wisdom of the fall, the words without thought,
uttered by the loitering stranger every day, from the hot and
pungent side of the same street we always seem to return to,
we imbeciles, damned by the lie and the glance in the
mirror that reveals that all sense has been lost,
the climes condemned, our company bereft of charm as
the wind's inconstant bellow aches
across the ravaged plain.

Patrick M. Tracy

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