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Click herefor the Dead Poets’ Society, Wasteland Chapter
Tonight, there is a meeting
of the Dead Poets Society, Wasteland Chapter.
I arrive in my metaphysical helicopter,
late. Time is fleeting,
no remedy for that.
I am wearing a long-sleeved starched white shirt,
gray trousers with suspenders, shoes caked with dirt,
and an old straw hat.
I have brought Sacajawea.
I wear frost in my beard and my eyes are burning.
Gray sky, white ground. And in the air a churning
furious frost. I see a
clearing. But I mostly feel.
Time is fleeting. Suddenly I am painting a wall
in a flickering cave, and I am not cold at all.
I am naked and surreal.
I am listening for gibbons.
They sing at sunrise. I have been awake.
I am in a tree, holding a branch. I shake.
Clouds are red ribbons.
Something. Less. Mist.
Where? It moves. I move. Like. Same.
Me. More me’s. Not me. Word. Name.
Not now. Now: kissed:
It took me places I had not thought about in quite some time. Keep 'em coming, foehn! ~Imp