OK ... so I've got a little narration to go with these three poems. As I've noted previously, I went off to Traverse City to bring back the remaining Eschaton stock from our erstwhile distributor. I was feeling VERY apprehensive about this trip for several days in advance. I had been in a very-nearly-fatal car crash in the fall of 1993 which messed me up on a lot of levels (most notably ... my extended absence was the coup de grace for our Public Relations firm which shut its doors at the end of 1993 ... and I have not had a paycheck in the 87 months since). I was feeling like I was on the verge of another really horrific car crash. I was having day-dreams (and nod-off-for-a-half-hour sleep dep dreams) of being in hospital beds with tubes coming out of every natural and several addtional orifices. I wrote this up in the hotel the night before I picked up the truck, pretty damn sure that this "gesture" of trying to salvage what was left of Eschaton was just one final nasty twist of fate.
WHEN VISIONS SAY WE DIE
so much so wrong so often so predictable no wonder this fear engulfs us no wonder we dread unknowns
sleepless visions haunt our days of agonies we've suffered as though a promise of more pain awaiting us in coming hours
will even these few words be read when caked in blood or burned by petrol? who will know to take this from the charred remains the mangled body
all I see are tubes tubes for breathing tubes for pee tubes for feeding tubes for blood tubes for numbing a pain which will not end not in this life
is this how it ends, the empty gesture of a broken dream, a mission of salvage to grasp at shattered hope only to enter a trap of bitter fate a final cruel deceit?
