Been a relatively quiet few days here in Rancho de Loaners. I even got a chance to write a poem. Now, I know I am very rusty, and today I am thankful no one reads this blog. so here we go, true believers:
UNTITLED
After one too many funerals
or whispered clippings
found in the back pages
of the afternoon paper
it's like the blood has started
to dry on my hands
as the memories,
and the guilt
of being on the good side
of the casket again
becomes too much
this overcast Nebraska afternoon.
Brian Bengtson.
I hope someone liked it and got the meaning. Sometimes it is so hard to write because I never know if I am holding onto a good image or keeping a great metaphor. Reminds me of those first few times we all smoked pot and the buzz from the THC (which, if you listen to all the news and such, is about 6o-65% stronger than the weed of the sixties. Isn't this modern age wonderful?) actually made the room (or park, or classroom, or car parked down by some lonely road no one ever uses) spin. the lower half of your body would turn to Malt-O-Meal, and everything you did would create gales of giggles and laughter. And then, as always you had to go home and navigate through the maze of Mom & Dad just so you could crawl into the bed, close your eyes real tight, and let the room spin you to sleep.
Anyways, here is a poem I wrote after a really long dry spell, and I hope someone liked it
Peace,
Brian
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