Tickets Please!

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Chances should come with stickers –
carrying instructions, like which buttons to press,
which way to turn
and how to survive those innocuous bouts
of life that intercede,

with their damp edges that peel way
and which always leave me stuck,
with nought but a panoply of wetness;

extremities made of stodge and glue,
at the very point where I thought
my life would start, until
I’d always dig a bit more,
only to find I had no real chance at all.

So, I have nothing.
On most days, I lift a dirty nail
to scape that crimped and lifeless
pape mache, only to reveal
the plastic drudge of the rain soaked window,
on this bus going nowhere –

to be fair, this bus takes me places
while I sleep, and feel safe,
and where I can sometimes peep under the skirtings
of life’s bitter edge without having
to peel it away.  Most days.

Ultimately, the traffic of heavy breath
unwittingly peels away the crudities
waiting for me once I get off;
such is the nature of rain soaked passengers
and do gooders all mixing to make my life hell.

City

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In the city
where the sprawling lilac of lavender
refuses to creep
and smog overtakes air,
cramped, urban
tongues exfoliate,
hands touch fleetingly
and rain forced furrowed brows
make 6pm eye contact with grey slabs
of concrete – only briefly
do we get to glimpse the psyche,
but ultimately only sharing seconds
in each of our different spaces
geared to specificity.
Heavy frowns and crows feet
are perched on fine faces;
commuters of planet earth
to home life and no life,
street life and dreamscapes –
but inside all fighting against global
grime and trains,
poverty, injustice, crime,
the rain and hungry babies.
Once in a while we do all stop
to share the blossoms falling
inside a city of strangers.
.

Absolute: Zen

Inspired by things to do by Leonard Durso

Is it the wind ‘s form
that makes the sound of
the clouds?

Listen for those
invisible things
craved,
elusive;
out of reach
to those of us
that remain
out of touch
with ourselves.

Aeons
of particles,
all the same substance
in parcels
brought,
stay unopened,
microscopic forms –
captive to suspicious frowns
and eyes
that lightly finger.

Automatic assumptions
make it a scorpion
in brown paper packaging
that becomes
the Trojan horse
of our dreams –
forbidden
in daylight –
because we are prepared
for those who dare,

but we forget we are one,
everyone is made
of the same substance,
packaging is made
of the same – substance
has no name or form.
Energy, mind, God and matter
are all name and form.
Everything is made of the same;
if we only understood
ourselves,
we would be at peace.

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