The Shapelessness of Things to Never Come

Image for post
Image for post

For the most wanted silhouette in all of Nevada City
It was perfect armed-robbery weather:
A skosh sloshed with heavy hints of fettering fog,
Just enough cloud cover to put a bit of hair on the chest.
Well, as for Clyde,
Apparently he had spent too much time in Iowa Hill
At some rock-bottom point in his arrest-ridden life,
Coughing up bronze shrapnel and butterfly wings off the grid:
Another reprehensible instigator sniffing fall’s schematics
Outdoors one final time.
September’s backburner was stuffed with dead leaves,
And somebody’s insufferable shy ways
Were washing away loss
From a hangover’s peculiar brand of dying.
You see, Clyde’s contractions
Were getting to be just a few words apart,
And there was no getting past the divisor
Of his most brooding quotient
As he contemplated the chest-high fractional swirl of current events.
“Your eminence is forever imminent, fellow fellow,”
Quipped a swan jerky salesman from his balcony.
“These climes, they ain’t so airy.
Even Eisenhower had to say,
The picture’s gone from the show,
Ask any crooning prodigy,
Mister Bing Crosby
Or the bellowing Enrico Caruso,
And these times too,
They will always go
And keep going away.”
Clyde ignored the spilled verse
Like nickels from hell,
As he reconciled being caught with being chagrined,
While even the mice were getting high on the cocaine-infused dust
Saturating the floorboards of his makeshift hideaway.
Left to his own devices, well,
Clyde, he scurried on off to more curable partials,
Calling no cars,
Reaping dividends from shells of casual indifference,
Wading ankle-deep into subtraction’s deeper unknowns,
Telling any folks within hearing distance:
“We are but shorebirds here,
Lesser auks of clumsy gait,
Worriers of great dives,
We have sacrificed flight for fight,
In the decadence of our years,
In the primitive deep of our cares.
Sacked, now,
I wail upon soft waters,
My row with empathy capsized
To a mild rebuke.
Take me as I am not:
And, for the love of interest’s inhumane capital,
Please let me disavow this seizure of my small gains
For your ill-gotten funds.
My heroes have always been famous drunks and bandits and shoeshiners.
Let me bide the remainder of my existence
In some incomparably grubby abode,
Where perhaps
People can be just a scrap more decent to each other.”

The only writer who matters

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store