Kaleidoscope
of Fragmented Sequences
We fought ourselves
being immoral.
Hours of empty
imperfection,
tainted on broken
windowsills.
Scurrying, like vermin
to keep
the blood flowing.
Dripping on the panic
below.
All unhappiness enters
through
the wind of age.
The doors of thought.
There is no time to
devise a heaven.
The clock is ticking…
This, in the gist of
humanity,
is not very important.
I see too many
generalities while the naked feel soul.
Knowing the next story
on the palate will be
dark,
cold—and everlasting.
The Poor Kid (Pincus Form)
Dead
child
thought of
less often
now that the mine field
excavated panels of
bones.
Ordinary (If I’m Permitted to Comment)
Another shopping cart,
pushed by an
elderly couple.
Mid 70’s—lifers of
the town,
this is where
their dream dies…
Ordinary…
Ordinary…
I fake a grin as
they
pass by, looking
for reassurance
from
the man in the
Celtics hat.
My own excursion
to
Walmart reminds me
of
who I am—
Ordinary, no sense
of remembering
what I
was— (if I was
ever anything)
when I die.
Just an extra guy
who
shuffled in and
out of necessary
walks, thoughts,
and trips to the
grocery store.
Nothing
significant or popular.
Ordinary life…
Ordinary death…
Dreams be damned.
Nothing new to see
Dan Provost’s
poetry has been published throughout the small press for a number of
years. He is the author of fifteen
books/chapbooks, including in 2022: The Third of Five, published by
Alien Buddha Press, and Wolf Whistles Behind the Dumpster released by
Roadside Press. He is a
three-time nominee for the Best of the Web and has read his works across the
United States. He lives in Berlin, New
Hampshire with his wife Laura and dog Bella.
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