Remembering The PastA Poem by Kenneth The PoetThe 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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Added on May 21, 2011Last Updated on May 21, 2011 Tags: Remembering The Past AuthorKenneth The PoetBismarck, NDAboutKenneth 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..Writing
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