Collection Development for My Random Life.

I think this one came together after a couple of meetings. Somehow I think it is a downer… well most of these work poems seems to be that way anyways.

Poem Title: Burning Ideas

Burning ideas like leaves on the front grass.
Hanging my clothes and pride out to dry.
Work is for other people,
Fleeting and contrived.
Time is the bureaucracy
Chewing off your fingers.
Thinking becomes busy-work,
Innovation a crime.
Everybody knows best,
But you
And you
And you.
So why bother?
Park your dress shoes at home.
Check out that book
Or magazine subscription
And read between the lines.
Those are your spaces
To make do with.
A secret nest of sleeping of bees
Opaque and honey-scented
And not alone in this
at all.

The items in everyone’s pockets
differs:
a penny
a rummy candy
string
whatnots…
All commas
the only syntax
which separates us.
Sunshine orders our clothed bodies
by gradient and shadow
again and again
We are sorted –
distilled beyond meaning.
Only, a perfect only,
are these geehaws folded
over and back until
secreted away in disappearance
fa-la-la-la
How varied is the well
to draw from piece by piece
deconstructing
to fill the linings
silver and mundane

I can’t remember what meeting this is from… must have been about numbers or budgets…

An unaccounted life

The numerical lifeline

Is empty -- flatlined

Sure there are traces

Just no perks or values

Only the static

Of a dead phoneline

The buzz of the telephone wires