I am confused
Am I still Tyler
I don’t know
Two versions danced
I saw them
Was them
Past me injured but leading
Familiar and scared
Faceless future following
Shadowed and towering
One burned and is gone
Now I am only one
Which am I
Do I like this one
Did the one die
Did I die
Is there such a thing
-T. Weeks
(After watching the film “Annihilation”)
It’s warm down here
So close to so many humans
Recycling crammed breathes
Closed doors offer no exit
The train hesitates for 5 seconds
Panic circles below the surface
Off we go
Panic disappears into the deep
Stop after stop
Hats and coats come and go
Stirring the waters
Deceleration makes us hold tight
This is our dot on the green line
We mind the gap
Find The Way Out
And crawl up to the surface
Emerging on the street
Bees from their hive
Buried in the bark of an ancient tree
Buzzing about the queen
-T. Weeks
(After riding the London Tube system)
Goodbye Mr. Whitman
Companions these three years
You dead and singing your leaves
Me dead and singing my own verse
The two of us banging on the pipes
Tapping out messages across a century
What an odd classroom
A dead teacher that cannot hear
And a sleeping student that cannot speak
You’ve led me down this path
With more to read and say and sing
I round the corner out of sight
Wave thanks and love to a master
Your deadman’s patience
Your poet’s eye
Turning I wonder, am I your fancy?
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Good-Bye My Fancy!“)
There’s a pain in my gut
Probably indigestion
Or maybe the first note of my finale
On stage a melancholy dead man
Eulogizes chaotic doodles
Spent life and ambiguous purchases
Our laughter echos his chorus
Nervous and fitful
Unplaced and a little angry
We worship in playhouse darkness
In this temple to the muse
The muse of muses: mortality
T. Weeks
(A response to “Unseen Buds”)
Thousands of years from now
When the robots have long since come for us
Redacted our existence
And spread their own civilization
Will they (or it) have a myth
A complex ontology all their own
When they catch a virus
Will they pray to the thought of us
Our images offering hollow promises of redemption
Maybe
Or maybe they won’t
Then what a salvation we will have given
T. Weeks
(A response to “Grand Is the Seen“
Also while reading Robopocalypse)
Writing a book is on my bucket list
But I just don’t have the time
Seems I’ve spent it elsewhere
Plots and premises stand in line
Blocked by perfection
Dulled by inaction
-T. Weeks
(A response to “The Unexpress’d”)
Robin Williams died sick and alone
Two hours of clips and interviews
Milled to precision to form an automaton
On loop to make kids laugh and buy pizza
Giggles and tears running on the hour every hour
The muse of disrupted expectation
Doomed to repeat himself forever
-T. Weeks
(A response to “L. of G.’s Purport“)
Two months away
Two days back
All seen and done
Rectangles in albums
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Mirages”)
Vigilant Grizzly King
Atop his glacial throne
Narrows his eyes
He watches his valleys
His ridges and hills
Berries freckling his trails
Elk stooping at his rivers
Marmots and chipmunks
Busking scraps from his hikers
Migratory RV’s stampede his roads
Leave food and stink on everything
This is his valley
All that is in it is his
All who enter are his
Nothing leaves unless he wills it
Bow before your king
-T. Weeks
(A response to
“The Rounded Catalogue Divine Complete”)
Where is the common place
Have I ever been there
Or have I never left
-T. Weeks
(A response to “The Commonplace“)
Life Immense 