one word city limits: fate
ashen marketplacefeeble encroachments
out of egypt
marching crosswise
the visual
tendencies awaken
the touch
of four
o'clock upon
your pate
the whisper
that now
could be later
than usual
organisms
of light,
we quiver
taste fever's
rush on
skin, rush on
blistered memory, rush
on all these
times
of need.
Labels: moving to the burbs
posted by murat11 at 8:04 PM
12 Comments:
oh, my.
my. my. my.
ps. i have to say, i was tickled when you mentioned the title of my silly piece... i wondered if anyone would notice.
qb: thank you for all the mys. and the oh. i loved your peom. kerouac, slightly less inventively, called his pomes. i believe he spent time up in your adopted burg.
so is fate a marketplace, ashen no less? do we have to rush out and on at four o'clock with fevered pace, or can we linger in the moment and still enjoy the blistered memories. Must our vocations be egypt miring us down with toil and slavery, so that we cannot stay too late? Or can we live and labor in seamless happiness? Don't we make our own fate? Why settle for something that one must escape from to the burbs?
That sign! I searched for a picture of it - often wanted to stop and take one myself. Our feet have been on the same road my friend. I saw dust motes in a sunbeam in this one and an unblistered memory of one of my babes sitting in that sunbeam trying to catch them. That baby starts college today. It IS later than usual. I will. not. cry.
Teresa: Fate, I think this poem suggests, is buried beneath the surfaces, no ashen marketplace itself. The early images are that beneath which Fate lies: she is the cool four o'clock in the morning on the (rhyming) pate, the whisper and quiver and tasted rush...
Dee: You're up early this morning, though I expect that this is the usual time for us on school morns. I can smell the coffee in your cup. Type "Fate, Texas" in Google Images and two pictures of the sign come up on the first page. I like the exit sign picture better, but Flickr images do not always agree with my photo-robbing paraphernalia on this here PC.
One of your babes... How wonderful. Blessings to both (all) of you. Ours, eleven in December, languishes between out there and the motes.
A cup of Cinnamon Swirl in hand. This IS the usual morning time during the school year. The only time, treasured time, when no one is around to ask for anything. My little corner of peace. Treasure these years and don't blink. Eleven becomes eighteen too quickly.
Dee: I'm assuming you're in your home nook, not already at skerl. Though early morning quiet at school is fun, too.
And I have three seniors in college... stop making me get all misty-eyed!
The fate that launched a thousand U-hauls. Ten thousand blistered memories.
Teresa: Three seniors? I'm not sure there's any way to stop those waterworks.
Ms San: Speak, memory...
Post a Comment
<< Home