Life Immense

I don’t know much, I see very little
We all see something different
My little view makes me

If your God knows all and sees all
Then he can’t be sure he’s He
Or if he’s just the ghost of us

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Gods”)

An empty fridge is extra bright
No gallons three quarters gone
Cloud the flowering light
The wide space left by an open door
Frames a hungry face illuminated

-T. Weeks
(A response to “A Hand-Mirror”)

Of the majesty of men and women
Riding colt happy in a box since birth
On towards death and life and death again
All ride the horizon path

Inside murals exquisite glow
Each a facsimile of lands long past
Memories gilded to be memorable
Bright familiar static comfort

Outside cankered leaf-springs sing
Box bobbing over unplanned roads never repaired
Dynamic landscape tumbles past
Never to be seen again

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Europe [The 72d and 73d Years of These States]”)

There he is again
The Ghost Soldier.
Sun-baked byway native
Drifting in the wake.
Rusted leather grin
Creaks upward and down.
Toothless sentry
Nodding at his post.
I hurry past ignoring the tap
Of his empty-handed stare.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Book XX: By The Roadside”)

Never again! Proclaims the visionary
At last the perfect protocol
Every scenario counted
Contingency upon contingency it’s all here
One easy-to-read 70,000 page volume
Also available, this 100 page summary
In PDF if you like.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “After the Sea-Ship”)

There they go
Hollow-eyed aimless
Boxes in hand
For the last time
Out the door

Don’t stop don’t stair
Maybe just slow down
Steal a glance
They look like us
Could have been

What is lost?
A badge, a title, a W2?
Emails, to-dos?
Gaunt recognition?
Happiness?

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Patroling Barnegat”)

Rumble crack boom snap growl
The modest invitation rattles panes
Ozone gathers fresh and ominous
Brooding gray dark and darker
The first drop lands
Lost among the next million
Patter patter hisssssss
Answers the static percussion

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Song for All Seas, All Ships”)

Begin end begin end begin end
So goes the dance
Stop start stop start stop start
So goes the urge
Forth back forth back forth back
So goes the tide
Loop upon loop we ride.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “On the Beach at Night Alone”)

What does conflict mean
There below the brine
Where the lidless predator
And the coordinated prey
Twirl into the tranquil abyss,
Bubble thrashed curtains drawing
On cloudy listing carnage,
Where hunt and kill and death
Bring life and bounty and balance?
Down there ’tis plankton blooming
That feeds the sea.
Up here we only eat while
The swift blossom of sweet paranoia
Keeps the grazers grazing.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “The World below the Brine”)

Stainless steel doors part wide
Square room, steel walls, steel floor
Featureless box almost
One cryptic panel begging exploration
Push a button unsure
Steel doors slide shut precisely
Farewell to this world
Electromagnetic action stirs stale air
Rumbles flesh and alloy
Dimensional travel turns in my gut
Everything stops
Steel doors peel open triumphant
Unfamiliar world tumbles into view
Nearly the same, nearly different
So this is the third floor?

-T. Weeks
(A response to “On the Beach at Night”)