Remembering The Past

The sequel to a previously published poem

Two days after he left Sparta,

he found his way to a place where

roaming charges are half the price

per minute when stacked against

the current price for a gallon of

super unleaded gasoline.

Located about eighty football fields

south of the line called seven-squared

and west from the most northwesterly

point in the former 321st Missile Squadron,

and named coincidentally with the actress

who once played a mermaid in the year that

Orwell predicted we'd be slaves to an entity

called Big Brother, is the place where the best

faux Mexican food is served in a twenty-mile radius.

Or so his stomach says.

While dining on a heart attack special

made of fart medicine, flour blankets and

potato turds and slathered with red, white

and orange artery cloggers, he noticed the

memorabilila from past generations.

The trophies from speech meets long gone,

basketball tournaments long played,

graduation ceremonies long commenced,

and a pair of sticks from the first hockey

tournament ever played at the state level.

And his father-in-law made an almost

ironic comment about the display itself,

that it was missing Catherwood's gold metal.

And he had to wonder as they drove away

from the place with Daryl's monikers if

Max Brooks's oral history was really

a prophecy awaiting its due time.

The land around them is only fruitful

when loved and tended by men and

women who want to feed humankind,

and yet it would become wild prairie

if left to its own devices 

after a few decades.

And it would consume Daryl's moniker

if the History Channel's scenarios had

any validity, any truth value whatsoever.

The mean age of Daryl's moniker is

primarily of those who served during

the Vietnam conflict, and possibly

the Korean conflict.

The monument in the nondescript building

near the almost naturally reclaimed rail line

is the last monument to their particular triumphs

before it becomes a sarcophagus to triviality

since the younger generations tended to flee

in a southerly direction like geese or

elderly people would in the winter.

But their flight was permanent,

like the process of erosion does

to granite mountains.

Only those dedicated to

rapeseed production stay

in the parts nowadays.

And he wonders why he is 

waiting for the sky to clear up 

and for the fields to dry out 

so he can participate 

in the raping of the fields 

with seed that produce yellow 

flowers and smell like dirty diapers 

when ripe, and why his bitchy muse 

led him to this piece of waterlogged

real estate.

Years earlier, he ventured to

a random spot on the topological

map that carried a pejorative for

Daryl's anatomy, but that's bogus

because the hamlet was founded

eight-squared years 

prior to her birth.

And now, he sits watching a

rerun of a show where 

Operation Comescu is about

to commence in Prague just

as his spouse drives up carrying

packages of frozen taco and

garlic chicken alfredo pizza.

Sometimes, random occurrences

have deeper meanings and

sometimes they don't.

And when they do, 

the poetry writes itself.

And maybe that's the point

of remembering the past, so

the future can continue.

Reviews

[roarke]

A regular, irregular modern day Iliad and Odyssey. A perfect example of the state of mind that exists when abstraction leads adventure that precedes the maturation of remembering. As I read, I could grab bites of burrito of my own journeys, see in fractions of prophecy of future parallel sorties. I think I once heard this played by a very talented pianist in a bar on oak street in chicago, I tipped him twenty bucks, it was a great guided tour, very much like this one.

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

Pure driven thought lures the reader in and clears the passage of your great concept, well done, great read.

[Liza]

only you can pull off these lines in a poem :)

While dining on a heart attack special
made of fart medicine, flour blankets and
potato turds and slathered with red, white
and orange artery cloggers, he noticed the
memorabilila from past generations.

[Joiedevivre]

What a poem! Definitely lots of soul, lots of character in your writing. I have to take it all in, so much to suck on here. Love the references that have you thinking only to be revealed, sometimes.
Sometimes, random occurrences
have deeper meanings and
sometimes they don't.

And when they do,
the poetry writes itself.

Oh yes! Brilliant write, have to read it again now.

[fireblossom]

This is just a bunch of fun. Images and histories that have nothing to do with me but seem sort of relevant. I felt as if I was dropped into a small town in the farm belt. I wanted to call a waitress Betty and smell the rain coming to flood the faded neon signs. Very atmospheric for me. This could be put together into a piece of prose where it would be a scene from Daryl's ironic situation. Well done.

Oh one little edit for to make the flow even better

"and yet it would become wild prairie
if left to its own devices
after a few decades."

I read it again without 'after a few decades' and it was more satisfying...

I then read it "after a few decades it would become wild prairie if left to its own devices" and that felt good too.

[....]

Ah yes! The past makes us who we are. I find this quite intriguing really. Makes me ponder is life deeper than what I think it is. Wonderful pondering thoughts....xo

[Omar Fendri]

This is a kick-a*s... very thoughts are provoked, placed in very various structures. An artistic style which goes further than telling a story, or memories. It's deep and full of emotions as well... The last stanza was the icing in the cake.

[Nobody.]

Yeah. What Poppy said! "EPIC!"

[joshua deathdealer]

Wow. Most excellent write. Very thought provoking and full of depth.

[realmwriter]

I hardley know what to say except, Bravo once again I stand to apluad but am held fast in my seat for the library is to public a place for such celabration! Very great write Kenneth, Perhaps, in my opinion, your best!