Spray

The morning I shall expend
In doctors’ waiting rooms;
Book on knee, pen in hand
Ass on chair, hair on head
Water in polycarbonate beside
Cellphone in thick wool bag —
But mostly pen in hand
(Extension of brain)
Writing this bridge to you
On this Joker day.

My heart is warm
The expected day is cold.

Other patients in pairs,
Or silent within themselves
Meditate on sterile walls
Perhaps some artist
Some heavenly graffittist
Could recreate these walls
Pretend this pseudo-Roman
Paper is a passing freight,
A rolling easel —
Could spray with sure swift
Arm-length strokes his
Brain on view.

That would pry me
Out of this acrid funk.
Could spray curved
Shoulder-spasmed
Words out of his
Skunk works onto
My waiting retinas
Shake me into his
Reality his young
Soon to be old tired
insensate numbness . . .

You there!
Still young there!
Spray me flowers,
Flames, curlyques,
Spray me rainbows
Blessings curses prayers
Spray me a graff
That reminds me I too
Once knew a DP when
Displaced Person
Was not
Double Pop
— which is more revolting:
The destruction of lives
Or the dismissal of one?

The rule of this room is
Silence churchlike silence
Silence of the damned
Of the Spammed of the atheistic
Land of soap and story
Splashed on screens right side up
For the obsessively curious.

A.D.D. doesn’t add up.
— how can anyone
Become so obsessed with
Imagery in the virtual reality
Of music, talk radio, video,
Videogames splashing over his
Consciousness that
He can’t live?

What is real?

Are we holographic?
Are we splashes of
Holographic paint
forming on intention?

Grab me! Shake me!
Bring me somewhere!
Make a here for me!
Make a now for me!

Spray on reality:
Angelic graffitti.

Pause

Immediacy is the measure
Of progress. No three
Hundered year multi-
Generational cathedrals
Construction projects here.
Here we build today
Rip down tomorrow.
Here we rip down
Yesterday.
Coat the wreckage with spray painted
Icons thinner than breath
Inhale paint fumes
Coat your lungs with the new nicotine
Go to the doctor
Wait in his room
Watch the walls and wait
For vases to spring to life.

Oh, look: dancers!

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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