Thought The Flue Was Open

Lover, your jukebox repertoire
inserts platters of sound
into my open mind.
I have no way to close it.

Please sit in a chair
and eat sardines straight from the can
and give me respite
from your cat-scratch voice.

The clouds of song
obscure my free lunch
I know is somewhere
on the table in front of me.

You seem to be unappreciative
of my devotion to meals,
especially the alluring spheres
of Braeburn apples.

My, how this room is overcast
with all your trebles
by day and by night,
by land and by sea.

Lover, this obscuring
of our shared house-scape
is merely a smoke screen
to hide alluring tragedies.

Moments from taking shape
without real discussion
of a pleasingly
fatal mistake.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Beach or No

Paul sits at the end of a beach.
In your mind do you see him
where the water meets the sand
or where the sand meets the grass?
Or way off to the left where the rocks stand tall?
Or way off to the right by the asphalt parking lot?

I will not be surprised by your answer.
Even if you place the end smack dab in the middle of the beach.
Our perception of the end changes as the fog drifts and rises.
The wandering dog changes our perception of the end as well.

What if Paul sat on the last grains of beach sand remaining?
What if Paul sat at the end of time on a beach?
What if Paul’s dog carried a stick from the other side of the ocean?

What if time is a song with inaudible lyrics?
What if we all inaudibly sing a part in that song?

Prepare to sing inaudibly. Your time is about to begin.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney