A Sunday Afternoon Without Glasses Poem by Floyd Crenshaw

A Sunday Afternoon Without Glasses



i write in fits.

they come and go like clouds or infatuations.
when they arrive
too often i am near r.e.m.
sedated and saturated.
pen and pad elsewhere
this wit wanders wayside.

most truths lack honesty
answers are opinions.
lies and speculation
disguised as
wisdom
and direction
run this machine.

where ghosts reside and
barbed wires tangle over tops of
fenced boarders.
bodies, bits of clothes and flesh, too.

satellites, gps and cell phones,
9/11 and 24, closed circuit cameras and a
man-god with a spider's head -
the face of fear mongers.

it is a home with no key
locked from within.
your own reality show plays daily.
keep enlightenment away,
protect the progress made.

The loathing behind
cheap balsa wood doors with
loose, aluminum knobs.
They lead
into other rooms,
with cloned doors and
caulked windows,
a chair, pill bottles, whiskey,
tv and cigarettes.

the scenes are beautiful all around
presumed happiness abound
people smiling posing
faces.
exponential pullulating astound.
it looks like fun.

i would love to be
immersed,
but there is no knife.

instead, find the door
to the sun’s room where
the walls are pristine windows.
i inhale the inebriating aromas
windex,
pledge and
pine sol
thick in the atmosphere.

the polished glass knob
turns with ease,
the prism disperses a rainbow,
light simplified
the last bits of normalcy.

empty and calm.
the ground is moist,
it is what i have and have not imagined
mixed with more than all the noise
lead me to believe.


the wind then rises
crashing the door.

my shelter, my home
a place for tired bones.
shatters on my lawn and
revert to sand, all alone.

join the race
the end is no place.

step bravely on to that moving
side-walk-a-lator.
enjoy a slide show of
commercial insinuators,
soap box platform emulators,
vain political party imitators,
oiled and dollared decision makers,
paparazzi sideline haters,
scientists hushed and burning alive on ice caps, the equator,
g.e.'s new line of power savers.

the world is run by greed and terror.

and i know
i have lived fairer
than those supported
by ninety-nine cent prayers.

i can not help, just stop and stare.
my world refusing to care.
as humans claim humans
for specks of space
beyond their fair share.

love hides, faceless, in all homes
some nameless pain did efface
repressing the love once given away
and the adversity of hope fearlessly embraced.

we are soft spots in a Seurat.

i entered through the cellar door
exiting out the side.
no more reason than before,
no more reason to run and hide.

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