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Frank

Jantes

 

 

   

 

POEM ABOUT ITEM

There is a point at which it says stop,
the air bottled up like a bad week at work
just waiting to lash out at the world.
And we assume that it means nothing the
way it expands and contracts like a heartbeat
pumping life and smiles to all those participants.
If you stop and listen to its sounds,
a sound that whispers to you the answer
at parties and carnivals and fairs.
He is fun to play with.

POEM ABOUT MYSELF NOW

I no longer smile for fun.
My face, rough like a carpenters sand block curls only with a kickstart or with the occasional sit down with J & B. It is not enough to help my Dad with the car or my Mom with the garden, or take a trop to the mall with friends. My experience but weary face ends the story of before and
begins the story of now. To tell you I am not happy is a lie. To tell you I am not lucky is a lie. To tell you that I regret is a lie. To be truthful to myself, I must one day lift saggy wrinkles upon the presence of nothingness and let the music guide me home.