Peter Bracking- Three Poems

 untitled 1

you wonder

behind the sound of your own voice

if there is any sense

your fingers slice incisive points

eyes might be held

but yours look beyond

the debate may now be yours

but you feel, sadly, your own idea

deflate like a freshly used prick

 

open letter to mr. moore

I grew up to the immediate north of one of the first economically ruined cities of the Upper Peninsula of your home state (GM ,GM, GM), which once upon a time (ago) was an integral part (because animals with furs still refuse to get passports) of two countries that did not exist that became two cities that no longer speak French, which turned out to be my childhood home (sans Grand Funk but avec Phil Esposito) that subsequently died a different but equally sad (steel, steel, steel) manufacturing death.

I do not buy the American Dream (that as a child I was happy enough to have beamed illegally to the our, first on the block, colour TV, over the wide cultural divide of the river) and I gleefully admit to strongly disapproving (having sadly, aged) the continually misguided (please provide me with a stronger adjective) sic foreign policy that has been espoused by idiots (read: elected officials) controlling your country and forced upon the world for the last century or so (as the clock tics); but you, the person and not necessarily your views however nasally presented, have ideas (thought from the other side of the river!) that, sadly, or foolishly, or sagely get ignored by the ignorant but which I, minor poet, enjoy.

If I had ten bucks (hey they are at par now, na na na na boo boo) I would send it to you to save the world (mine, please) or buy two bottles of beer or some vodka, ok, food, because I (like half the world) haven't worked for half a decade (more cities forced to collective skinned knees and into tight coffins in anticipation). But money slips (coins, through the spaces and the naturally occurring cracks) out of my fingers as easily as election promises (soothing untruths) slip out of politician's (or their handler's) minds (how oxymoronic, as morons go) but, but, I do offer (first rights refusal: read payment) this poem. And poems are only worth what they are printed upon and this one is printed upon the internet ether (read: nothing).

Luckily (unlike everything else in the caving world) I've got nothing but time.

given

given that black holes consume

pull together all the stars

gas dust random atoms

giant ice crystals that roam forever until

given that each black hole

sucks and sucks

never sated

sucking in all

stars light even

(the gravity of it

all)

given that

questing minds thirst and burn to know

where exactly does it all go

Peter Bracking tells tall tales.  Earth point:  Vancouver, Canada. 

Words have been published by more than a dozen presses in four countries on two continents including: Maisonneuve; Merida Review; streetcake magazine; empty sink publishing; thrice fiction; Existere

The only occupation he regrets leaving is beach bum.  Peter is the artistic director of Utter Stories.

Self aggrandizement:  http://utterstories.wordpress.com