Friday, December 28, 2012

Mag#148 "free from the palor of death"

The Jeep
Harkening back to our many happy road trips
in the distant past
it was on the backroad country
a foggy, rain-swept road
my mind now slip-shod
now simply a red tack
pinning me to the spot
where my red car spun out
i wholly surveyed the dire
within a moment by moment
mindframe unwind
all mind-chatter ceased
a cause to appeal
to the jury of one;
I would have no finger-pointing
or lay seige to my own inaction
there was no time for self-incrimination
so thoroughly dismissive of all charges
that I,
the captain within
claimed complete command
and subsequently dropped all injurous charges
renounced all ego 
suddenly the winds picked up
as it was
a dark and stormy night
the shadowy figure of
Edward Bulwer-Lytton
like the black dog
in his Edwardian morning suit
partially lit by an antique Victorian lamp
as he shed his light
at night
to show himself alive in effigy
as the convener of mystical marriages of
spirit-bound magicians
the place
indeed lit up although time forgot
all about the soon-to-be quickening
who, but I could
make a 360 donut last in a centrifugal centrifuge
a fuge
rather than a dirge
 three times times minus zero
the outcome?
 a perfection of reactionary time co-efficient
The Co-Creator
who's skill saved our sorrowfullness
 using the only skill
which neccessitated the
honed her high cheekiness
so far beyond the outer limits
in the Twilight Zone
she, an experienced driver
and as such, I said as myself
would save all souls
repealled this fated day
from the peril of certainty
the nonimportance of ncecessity
with undesired plastic-means devices
and issued the non-prevailing winds
concurrently serving back-to-back sentences
becoming the centre placement of spin
a most peaceful place
where the calm meets the storm
where something unknown is bound to happen
probably something horrific had been waiting
2012 lurking like death
as in
the Mayan Long Count Calendar
all our lessons
learned in the empty mall parking lot
doing donuts whilst eating them
many winters ago
spinning counterclockwise
recalling the memorex
kept intact 
the timelines
free from the palor of death
the day
could have been our last
save it
the meet and greet with Michael
on the roadway to heaven
and in the killing fields
the deadly nightshade ditch
the highway to hell a gapping wound
the spiral unwound
left flat-faced and embarassed
who would  not intersect this midheaven
 in rhe way described
it was by the book
by my way of knowing all about
I saved your skin
 we've already
just don't know it as yet

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