Frank Praeger

However Desperate No Longer Quiet


Allegiances he'd lost others had lost before -
Idyllic squanderings of excess, troubadours of more.
So here he was last and lost,
compa¤ero to spite, yeas ricocheting,
dream dust irritating his eyes.
Last and lost he repeated, grittily.
Although even sandpiper cries could dishearten him
he set about counting ways he could be.
Lover of big cigars, admiring the declarative,
could he not prophecy the end,
but of two minds on pigtails,
inclement weather, little red riding hood,
wouldn't he end up
press agent of paradox?
Unable to confirm his own words
he aped the mirror's consternation -
so why the hellabaloo.
Exhibitionist to his own discretion
he mobilized.

Today would do.

No more cuttings on the floor,
a clean foray to wherever,
a quiet sorting of loose ends,
neat coils receding, hallways
filling. He backed into a crumbly wall,
shook himself off, backed again.
A slight fog came settling on the window sill.
Tired of high fives, staged impromptus,
he stabbed at power buttons, pushed contraptions,
belabored missing parts, burned-out motors,
separated more and more like from dislike.

He varied the day's agenda, fascinated by each menu,
to change the odds. Recipient of entry forms
to numerous contests,
he took to calculating distances,

to swatting flies.

He vowed nothing furtive would do.
Destined, he thought.
Unsure as to exactly what
he said it to himself again, destined.
He liked that sound, how it rang true.

Frank C. Praeger © 2014

And a Fitful Wind

Matter?
Beached whales, dithyrambic bits,
discarded biopsies?
Who could have thought it?
Yet, days are still the same.
And nights?
Lengthened, shortened?
In memoriam quickened?
Questions, questions.
A pointless shrug
answers.
Matter?
does it
that sparks of fire and daylight haunt me
with their spectre of crimson-green
and how bullrushes shake
before a fitful wind.

Frank Praeger © 2014