So this is success, here I am at the part, where one chapter closes and another one starts.
And as I march forth although sometimes I fear I remind myself courage holds to persevere.
So this is success, I’ve done things wrong. I’m far from perfect, but I try to be strong.
And I’ve never forgotten what’s wrong and what’s right, and try every day not to lose that from sight.
So this is success, I’ve followed dreams. And as they mature more come true it seems.
And I never look back on the ones lost before, because I’m too busy looking for what’s next in store.
And too busy working to be all I can, for hard work and morals are what make a man.
So this is success, I know how to write. I can laugh at myself. I won’t shy from a fight.
I’ve researched things most men don’t know, and traveled further than most men go.
Yet through all this what I’ve discerned is there’s so much more out there to be learned.
So here’s to success, to the leaps and the falls, to the quest for self betterment, to heeding the call.
To adventure and learning, to wonder and strife, to becoming a man, to loving, to life.
And whatever I find in the journey ahead, I just hope that they say of me after I’m dead
That he was honest and upright and did his best.
And learned, and loved…and was a success.
more than once
I was trapped
in close proximity
to the disagreement
between Mom and
Great Aunt Anna
on Interstate merging
was as hardboiled
as Mad Max
all those poor shlubs
driving to work
to the Ozarks
to the liquor store
coming and going,
merging in and out
as was necessary
to daily life
in the byways,
were on their own
they were paid no heed
receive no mercy
from Great Aunt Anna
the merge lane was not
her concern not her problem
not anywhere on her radar
the worry of collisions,
sideswipes, tangled fiery
fatal carnage was the
of the mergers, the slackers
who weren’t up to
the task at hand
her voice two full
A plastic cow
does not have real teats.
A toy chicken
does not cluck
or lay real eggs.
hold no resemblance
to looking through a kaleidoscope.
and make no sense
while others only want
fake flowers in their homes.
I will never stop wondering,
About the delusional things
people say and do
as there is little surprise
left lingering within me.
letters unabated. soft shoulders a brief shudder believed. they pass quietly out of town and back on the road. where promise a future to come aloud in conversation.
crescendo toward sudden bright quiet. insist on a knowledge they can never master. a small child learning to tie shoes. it feels like terrible the only useless news.
they know we have no luck with other languages so stop writing. we rely then upon hearsay. broken fragments from other narratives pointing toward a possible sighting.
we sit impatiently at the kitchen table. put off necessary chores in case they show up unexpectedly. we ought to have met them when they briefly passed through town.
blue hair eyes strummed violin. and a smile that spoke it all. why wait until the end of a book to stop singing. they comfort by distributing pain unevenly.
all the while we look at the ceiling opening to expose forgotten secrets. they have our number we promise. as failure follows our first attempt to travel mid afternoon nap.
Gary Lundy’s poetry has appeared most recently in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Beautiful Losers, Vallum, The BeZine and Fragmentarily/Meta-Phor(e)/Play. heartbreak elopes into a kind of forgiving, was released this past July by is a rose press. He is a queer living in Missoula, Montana.
It wasn’t really a studio –
Just a corner in a big house
Where stood a broken easel
Supported by dusty old
paint splattered encyclopaedias’
a mass of different paint –tins
of type – colour –
this world is undefinable
by form representation
lay broken in fragments
on the floor
it was always cold in that corner
“it had to be” she’d say –
“too much comfort leads no where.”
To me this strange meeting point
I’d never understand nor wanted to.
I’d watch her create – this creature create
As (being privileged) I’d watch another world
Through the eyes of David Attenbourgh –
This place was not a studio
If not, what then?