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Poem Shards


Eulogy
I met him in the fog
  of war
 after he was already dead
 his visage in videos speaking
         dread
 and how the public is
     mislead.

  If only I could have known
       you before
      you gave up the ghost to
           haunt the crossing ferry
  off to places unknown, an
      undiscovered . . . 
     virtue.
  A new country! 
      A new type of people who
   respect the things that work that
       ferry churning 
        through the fogs and mists and 
               dank smelling out-gassings
     of these many foul rethorics spewed
         plausible
     no one knows
  who is sure?

   Which shore
     does your ferry 
  pull up to
       to let out the ghost, so
   the story goes, the one
 that gets told . . . better
    be one that people can
              hear when their kids are there
   outside the house
       at the top of the stair.

 She
     can't hear that story if he
     is but a ghost now she
     knew him he was
        her friend and
 told her how he had
       been
 destroyed, remorsed, 
  fallowed, wasted, lost 
 abandoned on the battlefield of soul
 blow up your fallacies, this war
       needs to be taken way down inside those
              dark-thought places where
      hate channels freely destroy
            the hate by sending it off to unthought
                rhyme
  unspoken
            words unkind
      unthought hate.

  We try not to think of it, what
      the plausible story can be he's
 off on that Platsburgh ferry a shroud
        of fog the mists
         and fowl outgassings must
  some how be endured one last time
        to say good bye, come back to me
       come back to me you friend now gone and lost
  never known all hopes
   of how to write this story . . . his story . . . if he had asked me . . . 
   I'd start the book:
      "He faked his death to escape . . ." 




from Unipoems
 She asked 
 " If you get across
  can you take this
       to the King of Nowhere
 and tell him,
   plead to him
  to think of her
  and the way that she needs him?
       but he won't come home
     so she goes out looking for him
 went down to The Flatiron Building
         asking anyone
    wrote a card
        mailed it home.

  I imagine her
       collapsed on a bench
        people shuffle through
     she feels the lonely loss
          why won't he come home?
     I imagine her.
 She wrote it like that
      on her card.

  But it was all for sympathy,
       just an expression of her drama
 and she felt lost because of it
       and didn't know how to proceed
         the tricks didn't work with him
      he'd gotten willful,
     run off with a different girl
   who doesn't go to church.

     Hear the steam whistle
  of an approaching ferry turning to make a smooth connect.
      Moving back
 from the railing and the ropes
       she notes the impatience of the people at the dock
     and how the other women really like to talk.
  the crowd rushes forward
  have your nickel ready
        she gets swept along
     now she is way out there
       in the ferry
 out past the jetty.

 Ferry to Red Bank 1906





🚦 🚧 🚨 🚩 🚪 🚫 🚬 🚭 🚮 🚯 🚰 🚱 🚲
🌛         



🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥

sometimes there is beauty within the fragments . . .
🌜🌜🌜🌝🌛🌛🌛 

Sprongg . . . onng . . . ongg ga

Her tired morning
seems more like poetry
than anything you can
find on a blog.


Bark Bark. Bark Bark. Tree
Bark Bark. Bark Bark. Dog

🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥

Woof and woe🌝 
🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥



who da thought?

thought is sequential the end of it is never flood on, river of wise neglect let the bough break let the wind blow removed the baby from that cradle long ago and took him somewhere safe. Thought is over rated when it's thought for being mean to be mean being mean what you mean when you are mean when you 'mean what you say'. Memory is overrated there is joy in the person even when they don't know who you are anymore they still love you they usually don't forget that they love you usually. It was cold that day he'd driven all the way there and plodded through the snow to face the sorrow of his loved-one who didn't remember him but thought him to be someone else as thwarted. Memory is overrated when it's hard hurt of past tragedy as if it happened yesterday from the long ago. Bill Perilli, writer of all of the things on this blog. 🌜🌜🌜🌝🌛🌛🌛

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