Author Information
Statistics of Hover
Folder:
Vintage Words .
What is it that hovers at the
tip of my collar, illusive
as the breath of a newborn,
decidedly present? Hovering.
Something has the city on the edge.
Drivers are misreading the road
running down wrong ways.
O-turns in the middle of Woodward.
Undecided on which is the shortest
route home.
.
What is it that makes hoodlums
jump in the back of open hatches?
They wait, street corner idle,
doing the in the street hover.
Invisible. Watching.
.
When did the security of the city
end? Four men in a fast sedan
used to frighten us. Now we wonder
where we went wrong. Gestapo
leather had a presence when
the good guys wore black, bereaved
for the thugs, putting fear in
the innocent and the conspicuous.
We do not build prisons for the step
losers, we build barricades for
ourselves the civilized way.
.
Freedom is an anachronism. I use
it rarely now-a-days to decrease
confusion. The impermeable passage
of time likely brings no more trouble
than before my hours of pains taking
notations. We subsist, waiting.
.
The things we dread are poised
to appear. Ready on the moment
to strike corporeal out of hover
status and become the guilt
and grievousness we earned.
.
allets
03-29-86
.
Not Too Shabby
written in 1986 - yeah. I was some pain in the ass then. I was young, 36 dahlin'! 13 volumes of poetry published to date, 10 novels written, thinking about publishing them. Publishing and editing poetry since 1969. I sold a poem for $100.00 in 1983. I am published in a British anthology - international writer. It's a life. ~(:D)-
01-13-21
allets