The Slate of Things to Come...

Will the words and images
upon the slate right now
be stained upon each visage
forbidden to ever disavow

I look at these faces passing by
and read the slate on them inscribed
Expressions as if words transcribed
proclaiming fate or a slate's old lie

Is this the slate of things to come
Is all that can be- all that's done
Is this the slate that wars have won
Is all that's left now to become

Will this slate be cleared away
so all that's done is yet to do
and everything is rendered new
with only blanks allowed to stay

I look into the vacant sky
with clouds that hide the stars behind
and wonder if their lights would mind
knowing that their source must die

Is this the slate of things to come
Is all that's to be- to be undone
Is this slate one continuum of none
Is all there is, all to succumb

Will this slate be an old addendum
attached to some lost referendum
detailing the limits on life's momentum

I look upon some pages written
in words to make its readers smitten
with hopes they'll never be unwritten
by authors other than the underwritten

Is this the state of things to come
Is all there is confined to some
Is this slate wisdom for the dumb
Is this the remainder of its sum

If the slate is set in stone
why grind against it to atone
If the slate is of the fade
what use exists in all that's made
If the slate is something to impute
what then do we constitute

What is this slate of things to come
  Do I inscribe my life upon its face
  Is it the outline that I trace
 Or something that I just can't place
What is this slate of things to come

The Rusty Pocket Knife...

Jack was one of those people that could do almost anything. For most of his life he'd done repairs on everything from home-appliances, to cars, to housing damages, and everything in between. According to him if something could be fixed then he'd fix it, and if he couldn't fix it then it just couldn't be fixed.

There was always something in need of fixing. According to Jack nothing ever broke-down and went looking for someone to fix it, so it was up to him to find things in need of fixing. Sometimes he'd go around knocking on doors to solicit his services. If a big storm had swept through town he'd find a roofing outfit and hire on for a few months. When he had spare time he'd swing by his uncle's auto-shop to see if they needed help keeping up with repairs.

A few times a year Jack would give candy to some of the kids in his trailer park to put up fliers. The fliers just had his phone-number and the words "Jack-of-all-trades will fix anything". When he could afford to keep the phone on it'd ring a couple times a week after the fliers were distributed. 

His trailer was close to the entrance of the park, and everyone driving past it would see the sign reading "Jack of all trades" that he kept in his front yard. He'd made a deal with the park's maintenance and supervision to let him keep the sign there in exchange for helping out with repairs in the park from time to time. The residents sometimes called him for repairs before they spoke with the park officials, but he never complained or let them know about it.

Over time word spread through the park that Jack would fix things for residents on the cheap if not for free. Some of the residents told stories of him turning down money, and others told of paying him with nothing more than homemade treats. As word spread more and more of the park's residents started asking Jack for repairs.

The more Jack helped people in the park the less time he had to go out and make money. According to everyone in the park he didn't seem to mind. As his trailer started to get older it showed signs of being in need of repairs. Every time he tried to paint it someone would inevitably swing by and ask him for some repair or to paint their trailer too. He'd put off painting his own trailer, and rush off to help whoever was in need.

His trailer started to look pretty shabby after a while. Some of the residents even complained about it to the park supervisor a few times. No one ever came by to help him paint it or anything though. As his trailer showed increasing signs of neglect there were other things Jack seemed to have had trouble keeping up with too.

Jack's tools had always been in good order before cheap words had spread through the park. Over time people started to notice that his tools not only looked worn but rusted over too. Some of the people that knew a few things about repairs also noticed that he wasn't using the right tools on some of the jobs, and he seemed to be bringing smaller and smaller tool kits.

Over the years Jack himself seemed to be aging faster than what could seem natural. A few of the residents became concerned with this. Some of them tried to ask him if everything was alright, but he never let on that anyone should be concerned with him. It wasn't long after this time that he started to become more reclusive.

Some of the residents had gone to ask him for help, but hadn't been able to get him to answer his door. Others complained that he'd ignored them when they tried to catch him while he was entering or leaving his trailer. A few residents thought he might be showing early signs of senility, but no one knew what was wrong with him.

Jack eventually took the sign down from his front yard, and ceased to send kids out with his fliers. After the sign came down he only left his trailer about once every few weeks to get groceries. Someone in the park claimed that he'd sold all of his tools for scrap around that time. Some of the residents expressed concerns with each other over Jack's reclusive habits, but no one knew what if anything should be done about it.

Then one day someone noticed a smell coming from his trailer. The police came and found him on the kitchen floor. His dishwasher was dismantled and parts were spread out neatly on the kitchen counter. At first the police found it odd that there weren't any tools in sight, but when they moved his body they were able to figure out what happened.

He'd been trying to fix the dishwasher with a rusty pocket knife. At some point the screwdriver-prong had busted-off of the tool. Apparently after that Jack had used the rusty cutting-prong to put a hole in his throat. They found a length of tubing attached to his wound and leading to the washer's drain. According to police he must have intended to keep from making a mess.

Jack didn't have a will or any next of kin, and there wasn't a funeral for him. A few of the park residents thought about having some kind of service for him, but nothing came of it. One of the residents said that they wished there was something they could have done to fix Jack. It was only after hearing these words that I understood.

For most of his life Jack was trying to fix more than just the things people used in their homes. He was trying to fix something that none of his tools were made to repair. His rusty pocket knife was just another tool that couldn't fix what he wanted to repair. In the end he must have known that despite all of his efforts he couldn't fix what was wrong with the people in his life. This meant that the saddest possible thing had to be true. After all- if Jack couldn't fix it, then it just couldn't be fixed.

How Much Of This World Do You Have To See (Before You've Seen It All)???

How much of this world
do you have to see
How much is in your view

Walking down the street
you're used to driving-by
There's more for eyes to greet
than you're willing to even try
You see it all as something else
all like things you've seen before
It's all the same and nothing else
It's all just more, & more, & more

How much of this world
do you have to see
How sizable is it to you

The world is vastly big
It's full of redundant size
The street birds know the jig
They can see the redundant skies
They know they aren't above it
and see no more need to fly
They peck at crumbs & love it
ignoring the cyclic passers-by

How much of this world
do you have to see
How much is there for you

As you walk and keep walking
in steps like steps before
People talk and keep talking
and their talk is all one roar
Is there one word inside this
apart from all you've heard
Is there anything besides this
this ever ruminating herd

How much of this world
do you have to see
before you've seen it all

Suddenly you lose your step
and fall back down to earth
Seeing shortfalls of your misstep
is like witnessing your birth
You see the same world opened-up
as your eyes expand their view
Your once half-empty broken cup
spills out in front of you

How much of this world
do you have to see
before you've seen it all

The ambulance is quick
but your blood pours out so fast
You used to think you were so slick
when it was all the same forecast
It's so sad your eyes are open now
like never once before
as you wish there only was somehow
they wouldn't close forever more

How much of this world
will you wish to see
before you've seen it all

An Old Thing...

I was never really young
In my youth
I thought more like
I was old
When I actually
become old
I wonder if I really
will be old

I've been practicing
for all this time
so maybe I'll get
being old right
I hope so
but I wonder
as my mind ages
if all this practice
will ruin being old
I think that by
the time I'm old
the very idea
of being old
will have long since
become old
and I'll end up
becoming something else

Having never been young
and never become old
I'll end up as something
without age
-something
out of touch
with all of time
and I'll run out of time
to figure out
what all of my time was
to me
and what I was
all this time

I'm not old yet
not that old
not this old
but as I'm
getting old
it's already
getting old
This isn't
a young problem
or it doesn't strike me as one

This is an
old problem
and I'm not ready
for it
but I can't put it off either
When I'm old-
  I might be too old
to have left this problem
unsolved
and I'll end up wishing
I could go back
to when I was young
and change my
foolish youthfulness
so I wouldn't have to
face this problem
and others like it
as such an old man

Or I'll wish
I could be
young again
without having been
young before
so I could
really be young
as a consolation
and way to escape
into memories
of my youth
when I can't face
being so old

But then I see
all the old men
that have already
done these things
The ones that weren't
young in youth
wish they could
go back and be that
The ones that were
young in their youth
wish they had been
something else
So I guess no one knows
what they are
or what they
want to be
or what they
would wish to become
   Not really
    Not when thinking back
      or imagining looking forward

It's all the same
old thing
I guess
  but then again
I don't know
at least not yet
   maybe never
This thing sure is
getting old though
  Isn't it

Wolves On Leashes...

As some sniff to find their niches
hear the wolves that run so free
Dogs all kept upon their leashes
dreaming of the wolves they'd be

Untethered dogs are bound to roam
for banal stagnation is not their home
At heart they live as wolves on leashes
despite the tame their trainer teaches

Some dogs stay without a tether
bound by something else to stay
Some form packs and bind together
others wander-off alone and stray

When dogs are cornered under threat
the wolves comes out in teeth and growls
For some things blood just can't forget
their truth escapes their muzzled jowls

The wolves remaining wild and free
are content to meet survival's needs
They're not the devils some might see
nor angels for the heart that bleeds

These wild wolves are on leashes too
that hold them far from normal view
And when they venture in too close
wolves get trapped and turn morose

The world is full of wolves on leashes
some being led while others lead
They all abide what their tether teaches
To the length you're bound you must concede

Cold Memories...

On cold nights
I often get the chills
from memories
as much as weather
It seems some things
never quite leave you
no matter how much
time or distance
you place
between
them
and
you

If I start coughing
it'll all come back
in memories of that
old affliction I'd had
that even in my prime
could level me
I remember how
it made me feel faint
from even attempting
to make my way up
a single flight of stairs
 to a surface
that I was always under
and always
trying to
reach

If a fever sets in
I'll start to sweat
because I can't
keep my skin
from weeping
the way I can
with my eyes
And then
 coughing
 & sweating
in a sick fever
my mind will
continually pray
either to gawd
or nothing
that
I'm just sick
and that this
is not what
that other
thing
was

Riddled With Riddles...

There's always a riddle inside my mind
that entangles me in ways I must unwind
I untangle all the knots that serve to bind
Only to be freed for another riddle to find
& by these very riddles I remain confined

Bound to be bound in knots like this
Bound to be found in thoughts like this
Tied and bound by things I can't dismiss
Tied to the binds that remiss to reminisce

The riddle of these riddles within my brain
Is a riddle that my mind just can't explain
A riddle that's bound to drive me insane
The kind likely tied to immensities of pain

I tried to untie my mind from the answers
only to be bound by some other cancers
I feel like I'm under the darkest enhancers
that exaggerate spells of the necromancers

Riddled with riddles in every thought
Bound to tie them to all that I've got
Freedom's like a rope in a noose's knot
Tied to riddle-traps in which I'm caught

I thought that life was tied to solutions
but unraveled that down to disillusions
In all I've untangled of past confusions
The riddle eludes all great resolutions

Bound to be bound by thoughts like this
Bound to be found tied in knots like this
Tied-up in these riddles of all that exists
Tied in these binds, but bound to persist

Broken Works...

No matter how much I bleed
It doesn't help the gears turn
No matter how I proceed
It only makes my mind burn
As gears grind a screeching halt
 Smoke-signals decry no fault
 Shards of shrapnel scar my mind
What blood will be left behind

Broken works to tear me down
To build monumental frowns
Why don't I cast tasks aside
 When they can't be rectified
Why I work so hard for pain-
 Broken works inside my brain

No matter how much I sweat
Everything evaporates
No matter how much I get
Every sum just aggravates
As my skin both drowns & dries
 There's a stinging in my eyes
 All I grasp slips through my hands
Is this what the task demands

Broken works to split my core
To make less of so much more
Why do I press-on so hard
 Building what I'll just discard
Why I toil in such vain-
  Broken works inside my brain

No matter how hard I cry
It never fills the quota
No matter how hard I try
It amounts to no iota
As my tears fall far too short
 My intents will not purport
 Tearful floods create a drought
What else could this bring about

Broken works for devastation
To be done without cessation
Why keep building all this ruin
 When I know it's what I'm doin'
Why I carry on this way-
 Broken works on my main mainstay