Grey walls, and cold fluorescent lights buzzing like bees
They sit there, rubber stamps in hand,
they are gods of small power and big and important paperwork
I smile through the glass at my own misery
Forms to fill,
……………….lines to stand in, and the hell questions
and these voices, each syllable is a nail driven into my patience
I see them shuffle their piles of nothingness, like poker players with a losing hand, but
they’re not bluffing
They do not laugh, but they do drink coffee because they are people too, and they need
sometimes to take a break from breaking the human souls
Coffee cups they clutch like trophies of their small evil victories
I stand there, like shit stinking, waiting for a nod, a wink, a sign that I exist
But the clock on the wall is the only one that moves, and its ticks are louder than my
thoughts
And when I finally reach the end of this line, this torture, I’ll be free!…
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Forest roots
bulge through
the dirt road’s
four-wheel drive
tracks.
The homeless man
lies on the sidewalk
giving pedestrians
a few more steps
registered on pedometers.
– Diane Webster…
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I sit in my room and watch the paint dry,
although it’s not wet. I wish it was
as that would be something to do
other than just sitting.
In the summer they wheel me outside
and I sit
smothered in sun tan lotion
in my straw hat and watch the grass grow.
My life has become slow,
each day sliding silently into the next
while I wait
for my last breath,
for the sun to go down
on this quiet solitude
where I am surrounded by kindness
and dying of boredom.
I used to be so busy
but now I must be content
with the grass and the paint.
As if old people did not need something to do
in their last years,
someone to talk to as their world shrinks
down to a room,
to a bed
and finally to a box
where there is nothing to do
but sleep.…
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I wish you had warned me,
When we were young,
Or some other time,
While we sat on the terrace,
Drinking wine,
Or, perhaps, the time
We walked for hours,
Miserably lost,
Or that evening
We slept on the sand,
And could smell the sea
And could feel its pulse,
Or the time we sat
In a waiting room,
As quiet as air,
Reading ragged magazines,
Wishing we were
Somewhere else,
Or any time,
In the time we had left,
In simple words,
In a voice as loud
As a coyote’s howl,
Or soft like whispers
Of conspiring thieves;
In shuddering stammer
Or wrenching rasp,
In scattered sobs,
Or syllables spat,
In a long moan
Like dying breath,
The only thing
I needed to know:
That someday
I would be all alone,
And walk the house
In a sad trance,
And find myself
At the foot of the stairs,
Gaze up at the top
As if it were a universe,
And need to summon
All my strength
To climb those cruel,
Inhuman steps.…
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South Koreans have pale white faces. Oriental is what many people call them, though they aren’t oriental. Their faces are like rice cakes: soft, squishy, and fleshy, like the pastry itself. Their faces pearl white or the color of sunscreen that reflect the harsh rays of sun as it beats onto their umbrellas as they stroll down hilly streets. The porcelain color of their faces reflects at one another as they chatter about the newest Korean beauty trends. Asking one another what the best course of action is so they can keep their porcelain faces polished and pretty, like a doll. So that at least if not smarts or money, they can have pretty faces that they have manufactured for themselves.
Their faces are unchanging like the seasons the Han River runs through.…
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1
Nicholas Spice wrote about an elderly man
walking in the woods who meets a frog
that asks him for a kiss, promising
to turn into a princess. The man puts the frog
in a side pocket. What’s wrong with you?
the frog asks. A man your age needs a sweet princess.
The man replies, I would rather a talking frog.
2
As the Spanish dictator Franco lay dying in bed,
he was told that a great number of people had gathered
outside the palace in order to say farewell to him.
Why? the generalissimo asked. Where are they going?
3
Henry III was sent a polar bear
from Norway in the year 1251.
He ordered it tethered on a long cord
so that it could fish in the river Thames
from its den in the Tower of London. …
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One tree trunk paused our walk:
corkscrew-twisty,
as if a tornado had taken and spun it.
“Yes,” the dendrologist explained:
“more flexible, this tree, better survivor
than its neighbors—for instance
that one on the ground—to gale forces.
“Some of the storms we’ve had may even
have whirled it from the top—
like a top, you know. Over decades.”
With a finger I traced a spiral up its bark,
all the way back to boyhood.
“Son, you must redeem my insecurities.”
“Dear, you’ll despise the people I despise.”
Our group left that tree, found others. I
swung into the walk, feeling lithe—
by turning, turning, I came round right.
– Russell Rowland…
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