The Frantic Antic

21 Mar 2007

Shimmy Shine

Life in the walls. The Inspiration

⇑ by Rick Silletti in Scratchpad | Comments | Read more ⇒

5 Oct 2006

junkyard

my mind, its a junkyard; all nooks and crannies and
broken doll parts, bald and rough plastic and flaking paint for eyes, rusted rows of once useful things, no longer shiny, but to let go would be to lose them.
to rustle around in here shows nothing new, it all had to have
gotten here somehow, you know, but to let in others would
be to change things – change? and then how would things be found.
still, there are those places that have never seen the light of mind, I’m guessing, so I wander about on occasion still, down rusted
rows of once useful things, all nooks and crannies and broken
doll parts, bald and rough plastic and flaking paint for eyes, and
hope to find an unfound place and brush the rust away.

⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry and Scratchpad

8 Feb 2006

rocks... bones...

rocks… bones…

The vapor trail looked odd, as though it should have started from the horizon, but didn’t. It billowed wide at the base as it arced lazily into the blue afternoon. Some turned to look as I followed it with my eyes.

…and perhaps some survivors.

Some turned at the murmur that rose as the second vapor trail began close alongside the first; the two uncomfortably parallel, symmetrical, and final.

rocks… bones…

A lady in front of me bent over double, and threw up, as the third began next to the second. In the background, far in the distance, maybe twenty more; looking delicate and fine like the white hair of a dog under a microscope, all of them leaning in unison as though they had been groomed only a moment ago.

…scorched and ashen.

The gut wrenching silence was almost enough that you could hear the fourth as it rose, but not quite, not enough to silence the sweat and fear and sudden knowledge that all that had been, that all that you’d imagined would always be, was gone; like dust and mist and sunsets.

rocks… bones…scorched and ashen, and perhaps some survivors; at least for a time.

⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry and Scratchpad

23 Oct 2005

Boredom Wars

I lived during the age of cars.
Personal transport was a must, worries…
Health and welfare, work and careers;
politics, economics and government.
The first to fall was disease, of course, parts grown
in vats to replace, the littlest germs hunted down to
their final demise.
Then fell the wisdom of age, in her dignity, tracked
down in the gene`s swirls decoded to their nth degree.
Then fell the final truth of death, repairs so complete
that one could only choose to die, except by the most extreme
mischance.
First came the death games, the lotteries, the dares, then came
the suicides, and the legal rights of passage to keep it that way.
Then after came the boredom wars, tens of thousands on the field
of battle with no more than sticks and knives, shown weekly
by video to the world; some returned again and again, others choose
not.
Killing and death become all, and nothing; in her returning to
her throne, the final truth of death came clear.
Age still lived in the original scheme, hidden only for a time by find and fix;
left more and more often, now, to the natural way.
The old diseases are gone, but new arrive with great fanfare, glorified
as new saviors, Jesus in a germ.
But I – I lived during age of cars when personal transport was a must,
when life still had dimension in light of its inevitable end, and the
roads and curbs went on forever – and life did not – and the rough hewn concrete glittered in the sun, and all seemed so terribly temporary.
I lived during the age of cars, so very, very long ago.

⇑ by Rick Silletti in Scratchpad