Poem: F84

At the desk to write,
a coffee cup in hand.

I sit in front of an apple,
and the white of an empty screen.

I stop before I start,
hoping for something real.

Not to trade this
right here

for more blah,
and blah and blah.

Sinking in the chair,
I begin to fall

down a canyon,
with sadness in the air.

The narrator says:
Alone, cast off, desolate.

Puff goes the dust,
I drop to the bottom

of calcified thoughts
on auto repeat.

The narrator says:
No can do, No can do.

Below these thoughts,
I find myself

sitting on the floor
of feeling with no meaning.

Feeling congeals,
thick like blood.

It is here,
the music changes.

William Basinski’s ‘...on reflection,’
the ball of string unravels.

I am now
done.

Out the window,
I look, I see

the F84, a railroad sign,
over a white circle with a golden lamp inside.

Trees
gather like school kids.

The hillside, a cashmere of green,
to throw over my shoulders.

Cars float on by
to the slow drift of the music.

The gray sky
an upside down path

going all the way
to the edge of seeing.

The writing of this poem,
a self driving car.

Me in the back seat,
watching the words come and go.

I end this poem,
on the edge of a sigh.

looking up from the screen...
...there it is.

What I call
The Extra Real.

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