Labor Day
It is the end for some.
The marking of a season.
The energy in the air is palpable.
The children are screaming
The dogs are barking.
My veins are still blue.
In my house the silence is so deafening
you can hear God.
There are no pins dropping here.
No laughing voices.
Just silence, solitude, and a bastard inertia.
The activities carry on as I prepare supper
Spreading margerine on the margins
Fresh salt to make stock
Am I a listless ideal?
A relic from the past?
The aroma of lives unlived permeate my brain
The oils are like snakes, how they hiss!
The porcelain timer has no answers.
With each caustic tick she carries me
closer to the End Of Things.
I can lie my hands on the cold linoleum
and feel the jetpulse of the World.
The mercurochrome is still burgundy.
I am really carving a new life
like some complex and terrible jigsaw
such tedious inconsistancies juxtaposed
and violently thrown asunder
with the airborne potatoes
Metals are flying like mercury
the cacaphony is deafening,
tearing the very cosmos asunder...
with hope and kale and tarragon
and heart and soul.
There is a desperate wringing of hands
and then the wanton thunderclap!
Poetry is the juggernaut.
Vincent John Ancona 2006
