Monday, October 1, 2012

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                                    Balconies
I was elsewhere,
When he began to teeter
From the drinking, too much booze.
No right right foot, and the other left left.
They were laughing out on the balcony,
And the streets were empty.

And his mind was empty,
Pen and paper elsewhere.
It must have been on the out-back balcony.
All things spark, just to teeter
Some sway-way, back-and-forth, an all-in left.
All I have left: money for booze.

I wonder too, if he scrounged for booze. 
Sprinting up the long flights, pockets empty
And hands clanking full.  That right state of mind, it’s behind, it left.
A better, easier thought, of a full head now elsewhere,
I wonder too, which foot was first to its teeter?
But now, just thought of the 1:23 gusting balcony.

It seems, as if we all live on a balcony,
Whether cancer, day, sleep, knife, or just too much booze.
We all fall off, eventually all legs teeter,
Just too weak, leaving the lively Winnebago empty.
It’s a kind—or a kind of—rental, but is there an after-elsewhere?
And at such a fork, who chooses the path right or left?

Now they ponder what’s left,
Collecting everything, finding no notes on the balcony.
They have mourning in the night, and hoard Sunday smiles elsewhere.
Some find peace in calm candlelight, others calm in-depth in the depths of booze.
Whatever it may be, flood or fire, candles dry and bottles empty.
Altogether life is our teeter.

Like children, going up on the teeter
And down on the totter, does it still go?  once we’ve or they’ve left?
Small winds are pushing, Chaos blowing down streets and heads empty,
And through school grounds full of life.  We are born on a balcony.
And next to his hand flat on the ground, a shattered bottle of booze—
Whiskey.  The odor of stagnant life lingers, and breath goes to suck elsewhere.

Watch your step, or don’t.  Teeter everything you can or don’t, till elsewhere
Blows in your left ear, lying naked and soaked in booze
Your bottle’s empty, and your hands, a white-knuckled-clench on that balcony.

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