Remembering The Past

Remembering The Past

A Poem by Kenneth The Poet
"

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.

© 2011 Kenneth The Poet


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sir surely you jest.. great narrate and curious method..

Posted 13 Years Ago



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Added on May 21, 2011
Last Updated on May 21, 2011
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Author

Kenneth The Poet
Kenneth The Poet

Bismarck, ND



About
Kenneth The Poet is an optimist wrapped in the candy shell of moroseness and cynicism. He lives between the two parallels marked 46 and 49, all while living in the state marked 39. He pretends that he.. more..

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