You’ll never know
what might have been
you’ll never prove
what could have been
to loudly proclaim
what should have been
is the greatest of curses
self-inflicted by men
Category: Contemporary Life
Categories
Perceptions
Old man sits alone
park bench, chill wind
stainless steel walker
appears to cage him in
captivity in the outdoors
The man twitches oddly,
erratically, ever more
violently, piquing concern
tinged curiosity;
Parkinson’s, perhaps?
Some other disorder?
Should I call 911?
Presuming my assistance
I walk his way, stop short;
beatific smile not evident
from my original vantage,
what appears at first glance
a hearing aid is an ear bud,
hooked to an iPod, dangling
from the same lanyard as
his medical alert pendant
Moments ago, his prim,
gray fedora seemed askance
in my alarm, but now I see
is simply cocked jauntily,
the nervous twitch on the
walker bar is simply keeping
the beat to a groove I never,
in my ignorance, considered
Categories
I’ve checked
It is no longer a choice to
run away, join the circus
you need to speak to
a recruiter, for screening
so says their website
French Foreign Legion
not an option anymore;
I possess none of the
high-tech skills they are
currently seeking
Ironically, being an outcast
is no longer a desirable,
employable attribute
Even carnies know the I-9
drill, show up at their
kid’s schools for career day.
Escape just isn’t
what it used to be
Categories
In focus
Grainy black-and-white squares of
life framed in sometimes dated white;
glossy paper mosaic tile dioramas
snippets of life that have given way to
phone-shot, high resolution videos
that show all, tell virtually nothing
You can’t sift through a file full of
instant gratification videos,
you can’t scroll through a pile of
snapshots of folks in old clothes,
funny hair, tagging them for viewers
sieving through grainy black-and-white
squares clamped by thumb, forefinger
along the white border-frame, zooming
in and out by hand to gain better focus
I can see things a whole lot more clearly
My past is a detailed map
of mosaic tiles; true picture
discerned only from a distance
up close, personal, the lines
of each piece go every which
way and intersect at odd angles
going nowhere and everywhere
Step back a bit and the picture
comes into cleaner, crisper focus
you see where you have been
where you are currently headed
But no matter how you try you
will never be able to get it folded
like it was, nicely creased, then
back into the glovebox properly
As it should be, as I am; colorful,
intricate, cartographer’s nemesis
not easily compartmentalized.
Consider the common donut
if you purchase one
it comes with a hole
you can purchase
just the hole, but it
is not a hole at all
it is a ball; a doughy sphere
made from a disc that once was
where the hole is now, yet it was
never truly a hole in its own right
Buy the donut,
you get the hole
buy the hole
you get no donut;
just a glazed orb bearing little
resemblance to the hole it is
supposed to represent
donut sold separately
Life is like a donut:
some days you’re the donut,
some days you’re the hole
Indulge.
Sitting alone at a bar downing a
row of tequila shots will earn you
something from across the bar;
griping rights,
pour-out-your-heart privileges –
at the very least, a knowing nod,
acknowledging smile, tacit agreement,
‘go for it’ shrug
Sitting by yourself at Starbucks
counter coolly throwing back
espresso shots while clicking away
on your laptop earns you
ignored indifference as most baristas
lack the hereditary imperative of
the best barkeeps, while
increasing suburbanization of the
traditional, dimly-lit, urban habitat
is rendering the trusted, guru-esque
breed of mixologist one of our
most endangered species
For anyone mastering the hybrid genetics,
there is a Nobel Prize in it for you.
Or a perpetually overflowing tip jar
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Ponderable polemics, poetic 