sitting in his chair
waiting on the darkness, like a drug
sacred, the visions of the gods draw nearer
when the light falls below horizon
closer, ever closer to solving mysteries of a thousand nations
if he only had the time
between the need to rest and the need to explore
two yins, never the yang to complete the balancing act of the brain
wondering, hoping, feeling the helplessness of a child
in the fight to know his place
among the earth
among the stars
the Hollywood heads have nothing
their twinkles born from man,
the natural heavens from science
and maybe some mystical magic
his blues apparent but his interests compound
maybe one leads to the calling
the purpose, the point of the presence on earth
but perhaps it’s all just a fool’s errand
like the rock that claims gold
to the uninitiated
so he kills his time
murders with precision
courts won’t prosecute
for the brain has judged a million times
the habits of the professional
too scared to change, too easy to stumble
over his own damn shoes
and the mistakes he’s made
are the lessons of time
that have gone unheeded
and get repeated
his moans, his attempts at resolution
seem like nothing
petty like the bourgeois
who’ve no clue of the revolution
brewing
caring only for their tea and cake
while at the gate the peasants stew
for it’s their only sustenance
he thinks of these long forgotten moments
memories of times since past
historic persona
but the interest lies not in the facts
but the stories
as he tries to tell his
lost in the pale moonlight
the old time phrases of yet older men
the young
buried deep within the glow
of connected screens to an outside world
ruled by the comment
the like, the view
carefully curated museums
we know everything and nothing
and prefer it that way
he begs
he pleads
for the root of his commotions
as the dark arrives
prime time hour
nothing to hide from
the distractions of a modern day
consumed
and he’s forced to act
forced to confront
the failings of the body and mind
and which are his
and which are nature’s
the original sins of the human creature
the brain zooms
the engine purring
he’s quick to pop it into gear
no one around to counteract
to make him consider the parking brake
he’s restless
once again
denied the nectar of understanding
or perhaps just deaf
the headphones blasting their chosen melodies
but sealing everything else out
so he sits and wonders
and shuffles his feet
and feels how alone
he’s made himself
half willing, half fate
chances opened
became choices befallen
by misbegotten apprehensions
or maybe not
it’s impossible to tell
He whispers to the gloom
linked so often
with devilish implications
but maybe the specifications
were wrong
written in a different language
his dark the home of godly aspirations
the moment of calm
often the clarion call
of organized religious song
for the faithful
but his choir is gone
away for the moment
leave a message and maybe
they get back to you
but the night wears on
and as he grows weary
his ultimate understanding still just the stuff
of shimmering oases
over piles of sand
parched with thirst
but maybe that’s the point
the answer elusive
or completely unknown
‘cuz if quickly answered
the curtain will fall
the striving for living is asking
to keep on the road
for as long as the gas tank is full
and when it depletes
our cars gently drifting
we hope
to the sides where abandoned
we join the mass of the forgotten
bequeathed to all
if we’re lucky we’re named
to the casting call
of history’s director
but the scripts grow old with wear
and tear
and their dust floats upon the wind
to exotic calls
and we’re heard from
no more
and so does he let sleep
wash over
he fades into the contentment
and hope for the arrival of the coming day
through refreshed eyes
©2016 Daniel Cuthbert
Are you a fan of the beat writers, by chance?
I wouldn’t have said that I was a great fan before but after doing it and realizing how much fun it was I think I have to reconsider!