Category Archives: Adagio

“Furtive Futures”

“Furtive Futures”

Furtive futures, tokens of the late night flower
And as he smiles,  a common thread of thought, some random
Virtue and its knee-jerk negative recusal form régimes, their regiments set neatly in tandem
Each day with time enough to feed the guests between the hours’
Harvests. Memories posit foibles calcified from past
Proposals of support and action in what was always just around
The corner. Patience, saddling his ass, object to wastes grown profound
In almost every instance with innocuous verses that running circuits last
In time while losing time defines itself in terms of time, itself, and nothing stops
The show unless a rare and casual kindness from a stranger to  the flock,
Or simply not who or what must have a right to be. He views what’s on the dock’s
Consignment nd recalculates the costs of baggage and accessories; the rock,
Within remains the same, of course;
witness, yes, but still  he is both what he is
.
and as he was before he found his tests
To he the very meaning of his every breath; a gift, a bounty, an eternal yes
is there, but nothing closes close to closure. There is no subtle hint of rest.

“The Adagio Begins”

“The Adagio Begins”

The adagio begins; I am so very old this afternoon.
I drop prescriptions at the pharmacist,
And, while I linger, phatic melodies persist
Perniciously; cornered by exchanges with the clerk. Soon
The neighbourly welcome wears a little thin in me,
And while she might have had me read
The blurb she found in yesterday’s discarded need,
I found myself a little on the run and disinclined to be
The latest in this evening’s causeries, her chance encounter, leisure’s
Fodder in the daily bond, another rerun of the previous day’s events
That even when fresh and in the bloom of youth were set
Ajar in previous matinees. Politely I decline the pleasure
In the “breaking news” edition of the hottest feed of tips
On vitamins, deodorants, and balms to soothe the driest lips. —Once

“Your true traveller finds boredom rather agreeable than painful. It is the symbol of his liberty – his excessive freedom. He accepts his boredom, when it comes, not merely philosophically, but almost with pleasure.”
Aldous Huxley
[1894-1963]