We walked down the thicket path to Main street, keeping our heads low, covertly peeking through the clearings of foliage. Old vehicles – some military – were lined up on both sides of Main, one after another, their engines running. Men with assault rifles sat on the bumpers, taking turns patrolling the street, slowly turning their heads in 180 degree arcs, ready to defend the flanks. Some remained on standby inside their vehicles; others were crowded onto the attached flatbeds, sweating profusely and guzzling down beers. A rough looking crowd covered in war tats and wearing mismatched uniform attire, like they were going deer hunting after a weekend military exercise.
Tag: Aging & Mortality
Men without muses
Aging memories and youthful desires in perpetual flux, expanding and shrinking to the calls of unknown voices – sometimes friends and sometimes foes, directing and misdirecting, TELLING but never SHOWING. The trickster, STILL slithering around the proverbial garden, spouting the same old lies, leaving a trail of dead poets waiting to be reborn: Agonizing trinities of father, child, and vacated lovers.
SHE remains elusive, incommunicado, camouflaged among prickly underbrush and apparitions of yesteryear; taken hostage by the thieves of muses and destroyers of gray bearded men with orphaned writers. HER fiery womb appearing far-off in the distance, bubbling up in the heat of bone-dry pavement: ILLUSION set ablaze by the desert of shame.
© 2020 David M. Rubin. All rights reserved.
Rambling love
Dear Rebecca,
First off, I’m not being critical my love. I love you as is! It is just that, well, you always seem to be in flux, eluding my mental net of insight into you, which sometimes frustrates me to no end. And so I’ve been wondering, is this a premeditated effort on your end, for the fun or adventure of keeping me guessing? This seems to be a popular pastime among younger women nowadays. Or, is this changeability the product of your young, restless mind, always channel surfing or role playing one possibility after another, never settling down for long? I think it is mostly the latter.
Grimace
Dreaming on my bed cross-legged
Surrounded by still images:
memories, so to speak –
thousands of them
scattered and strewn
across the sheets,
carpeting the floor
from wall to wall.
Disorderly piles of them
like mountains and valleys
rising and falling
No rhyme or reason.
Her Smile
Hey Anne,
Found this poem in one of Isaac’s boxes. Do you know anything about this woman? Did she really exist? Doubtful huh? 10,000 miles? Not sure anyone would travel 5 miles to visit a loon, except for social workers. Just being real, not mean. I’ve always loved our little brother, but his issues pushed everyone away.
Our ghost, Mr. Shrink, is back again. Poor Isaac!
Be careful, the paper is dried out. Looks like something chewed on it. Wash your hands afterwards!
Lizzy
Notes from David 