In Real Time
Feeding the Nerves
Feed the nerves with caffeine,
nicotine, and alcohol.
Feel the little tremors
of fingers and toes,
the phantom feet of insects
crawling across the ankles.
Neuropathy is such great fun!
Digital
We are the same shits
we were in the Bronze Age,nerves, bronze age,
famous for Agamemnon,
only powered by technology
that accelerates stupidity.
Complaint
On my small patio- 60 square feet, by measure-
I take my tobacco break, sitting on an
unraveling chair and listening to the bounce
and screams of amateur basketball.
I dislike the proximity of the court-
a communal amenity I wish were a copse
of oaks or elms. I'd prefer the swirl
of un-raked leaves to the whine and inept
obscenities of sportsmen, bettered.
Some of the amateurs are clever enough
to switch on the night lights and disturb
my nights with glare and bullshit bickering.
Athletics are fine, in a separate place
away from what should be a common good-
light and air between decaying, cheap apartments
and the silence of deepening dread.
What the Moon Knows
A healthy crescent
waxes towards a zaftig fullness.
The moon itself is an arid wasteland.
We eroticize whatever moves into view.
We are pathetic. Our histories
will end us.
Feed the nerves with caffeine,
nicotine, and alcohol.
Feel the little tremors
of fingers and toes,
the phantom feet of insects
crawling across the ankles.
Neuropathy is such great fun!
Digital
We are the same shits
we were in the Bronze Age,nerves, bronze age,
famous for Agamemnon,
only powered by technology
that accelerates stupidity.
Complaint
On my small patio- 60 square feet, by measure-
I take my tobacco break, sitting on an
unraveling chair and listening to the bounce
and screams of amateur basketball.
I dislike the proximity of the court-
a communal amenity I wish were a copse
of oaks or elms. I'd prefer the swirl
of un-raked leaves to the whine and inept
obscenities of sportsmen, bettered.
Some of the amateurs are clever enough
to switch on the night lights and disturb
my nights with glare and bullshit bickering.
Athletics are fine, in a separate place
away from what should be a common good-
light and air between decaying, cheap apartments
and the silence of deepening dread.
What the Moon Knows
A healthy crescent
waxes towards a zaftig fullness.
The moon itself is an arid wasteland.
We eroticize whatever moves into view.
We are pathetic. Our histories
will end us.
|
8
favs |
1049 views
15 comments |
195 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
Adventures in real time
Other stories by Gary Hardaway
Tags
Comments
You must
log in
to post comments.
Love the curmudgeonly snark, esp. of "Complaint."
Thank you, Ed.
Great group. Particularly love the "Complaint" scene,
the description of neuropathy in "Feeding the Nerves." "What The Moon Knows" is beautiful. Love the ending.
Great noir. I'm almost convinced you're right!
Thank you , Dianne.
Thank you, Matt.
I like especially the accelerated stupidity and how "We eroticize whatever moves into view. *
Kind of how I feel too...
“Athletics are fine, in a separate place
away from what should be a common good-
light and air between decaying, cheap apartments
and the silence of deepening dread.”
Thank you, Beate.
Thank you, Steve.
"We are pathetic."
True. Humans ARE.
Enjoyed the reading.
"I dislike the proximity of the court-
a communal amenity I wish were a copse
of oaks or elms. I'd prefer the swirl
of un-raked leaves to the whine and inept"
Good set.
Thank you, Erika.
Thank you, Sam.
"Court" or "swirl" (or: both) made my a. m. wandering eyes read "copse" as "corpse" the first time: the misreading woke me up but stayed with me to the end of "Complaint".
These do form a good set, so well they could be a single piece.
Thank you, Edward.
Nicely done, and nice form, too *
Thank you, Foster.