Tics
by Gary Hardaway
Men at Work and Rest
If the exhaustion were physical,
sleep would come,
a natural respite, earned.
This metaphysical shit
just kicks your ass
and keeps you up
re-living unhappy dreams,
the ache in knotted muscles
unresponsive to any analgesic.
Tics with Sauce Malaise
A fidgeting lethargy
wherein what energy
there is spends itself
ducking out to smoke
or ducking in to reaffirm
existence on Facebook.
For White Girls at Seventeen
Who have Considered Suicide
When the Fog is Enough
Today's a good one
for slitting wrists.
The damp suspended
in the air
in a faint fog
discourages coagulation.
Big Blues
I fear the smarter planet
IBMers promise
in their upbeat TV spots.
Acceleration
If you listen, you can hear the sun
accelerating through your days,
running faster toward the last one
appointed by the gods
who hear no prayers
and can't be bought
with supplications.
These are all wonderful, but I feel Acceleration so deeply in my lfe. What happens to Time when the universe is constantly expanding? Does the Theory of Relativity address this? In my own life it sure is racing faster and faster. Fave*
This is a wonder set of poems. I'd be hard pressed to pick a favorite, but at the moment,
"This metaphysical shit
just kicks your ass
and keeps you up"
is appropriate for me.
Differential diagnosis. *
" . . . appointed by the gods . . . "
Special writing, Gary. A good set. Nicely done.
Made me listen to the sun.
I hear the accelerating sun every day. Good work.*
Thanks, everyone, for spending time with Tics. I am grateful.
Poetry's always been tough for me, but these are so accessible and wonderful.