Wednesday
May 02, 2012
Well, it's May. My birthday in 21 days! 64! Yikes. A lot of the poetry I write is autobiographical in a way. This one was written in 2008. Did massive rewrites on it yesterday and today.
The White
Whale
Ahab’s thinking
had begun to falter,
inappropriate
gestures cleaved
the air when
his words failed
to convey his
annoyance with
the entire
world. And those who
once sought
his company soon
departed, perplexed
by his
nastiness
towards family and
friends. Some
merely shook their
heads and walk
away as fast as
they could from
that crazy old
man who
yelled at himself.
Long draws of
a cigarette, deep
meaningful
sighs. Regret tossed
his nicotine
stained thoughts
across the
campus parking lot—
the smaller
one—next to the
building where
his office
used to be.
Was it too
soon to tell his life
story? Give
away the ending
both pathetic
and gory! A short
piece, no
doubt, capped off with
one finale
rebellious shout,
“To hell with ya, damn you all.”
Days on days,
night unto night.
He had long
ago lost his appetite
for breathing,
for the romance
associated
with young girls
in extremely
short dresses,
their
hideously long legs and
ample bottoms
and the way
they laughed
when they realized
he was
watching them.
He lived
alone, no kids. No wife.
A few potted
plants scattered ‘round
the house
confirmed that he was
somewhat human
after all.
The white
whale that he carried on his back
had finally
taken its toll. All those years now
sadly gone. Too
many ghosts remained wrapped
about his
balding head, too many memories
strapped
inside his fragile mind. But what a
ride, what a
joyous ride it must have been.
For someone
else.
Yes, yes, he'll
surely die. But not today.
Perhaps
tomorrow? The day after?
The winter
winds may blow a viral
disease his
way, which his hungry
lungs would eagerly
ingest, suggesting,
yes, that
suicide was always an option
he left open
on the small coffee table
next to his
bed.
No more of
this!
No more
green-soul shoes, bowler hats!
Yes, all
shall be for nothing someday.
Time does not
march at a steadfast pace
but wobbles
forth on wooden legs
searching for
the setting sun, but finding
only distant stars
to complain to.
One flesh
made of flesh. High heels
and guarder belts left welts upon
his muscle
memory. A borrowed quote,
“To be or not to be”, formed a
permanent
crease on his spittle
caked mouth.
And in the
middle of the night he often
cried out, “Great God Almighty, THAR
SHE BLOWS! The end has come, the end
is here at last!”
But it hasn’t
come, no, not yet.
And perhaps for him it
never will.
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