Debris-The Bridge- A poem

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Debris (the bridge)

Before there can be any sense of drama

there must first exist some pre-conceived

concept of the drama.

A dialogue is composed of rhythmic

connotations.

Back from that wicked Count, as you see, a

merrier world I will not make. It is the octave layering the half-tones. A body

marked with a thin system of forms.

Limited to the gaunt poses, they were there

at the end of the bridge.

There was much measurement to the bridge.

I could find no reason to limit the tones.

As a musical instrument, the bridge was not

completely limited. There were measured

responses in various terms.

What is this it clicks? It has a clicking sound. There were three words to describe it.

I cannot make the world a place of joy.

Surely signore, I have heard the goodly old

man upon the crucifix. There is no joy in

that.

But at the end of the bridge a group of

angels say on a pile of wooden skids. He

had marked his time. The bridge was found

wanting the removal of debris. The

corners, the edges, and the frilled ends

were marked with debris. To walk across

the bridge would cause one to feel

themselves not unlike the state of debris.

Yet they were fluid.

I have cycles in my head. I have cycles in

my head.

Your body is not cold but it is always

filled with a chill. There is a constant

frame of perspective. The clouds reveal a

vanitasse within the frame of your

perspective. I did walk across the bridge.

The bridge was found hidden on the top of a

ridge that overlooked the corner where the

car wash and the used car lot say across

from each other. Here was a track that

moved across the river, over a bridge.

__________________________________

Just across from the bridge, another bridge ran, filled with autos and debris. It

seemed that bridges had a penchant for

gathering debris, no matter what usage.

I have cycles in my head.

He was not just walking across a bridge on

this day, a Saturday. There was a blue

gradation of white on the snow. The air

stung the same way that a rifle spits

carbon when fired. There was a snapped

sensation in everything. A concept created

debris in his perspective.

A train would sometimes be found still on

the tracks. A body bloated, it too had

established a sense of debris. The fluid

concept had not been eliminated. Here cycles form in the fluid frames of his

perspective as he runs his hand along the

side of the train cars. There is the concept of manufacture, a sense of craft.

Industry presents an appendage. There are

appendages in his every view.

He has found this Saturday morning filled

with a sense of drama. He has aligned the

stars, as he puts it, to his own hand. He has prepared a sense of foreknowledge of

success. He has found the concept worthy of

consideration.

Three angels sit at the end of the bridge

on a pile of wooden skids.

It is night,.

On this bridge, he had once spent the

night. It was night. Coldness and the

city sky light grids had created a concept

of overview. Straddled in the appendage of

the very thing was a pocket not limited by

the perspective of manufacture. The arts

set for the concept but rather the

constructions defined by debris. Hre was

formed by the debris of the bridge, the

debris of the city, and the debris of a

small train light at the end of the bridge

where three angels sat on a pile of wooden

skids.

It is Saturday morning and he has awoken to find the weather has wasted the ntetworks of

the city.

Harrisburg has been shut down, according to

every local radio station. He will have to

walk in the snow.

___________________________________

Surely I had not been considered in the

matter. I would assume the knowledge had

been purposefully withheld from my

perspective.

He had not merely decided to walk across

the bridge. It was early Saturday

morning. He had not merely decided to walk

across the bridge.

At one time he could recall a story. He

had been coming home late.

Perhaps an August night heat for it felt

like the moist fingers of the earth rubbed

against your skin.

Not your skin. My skin

As a child he had been exposed to

sudden temperatures. He met the

steam-gloated water with his bare skin, his

pale skin. He had pale pink skin with a

shade or a hue of soft washed-out green

To have lived eighty years one should be

content with their time.

He had only this time. He would have the

snow. On a chill morning. I have heard

these sounds of manufacture. It stings.

Like scissors through the air, it cuts. I

have heard the confusion which is not

unlike the breakers transmitting the static

code. There is a rhythm or a pulse not

without the measure of the weather.

We have manufactured the weather, yet we

cannot contain it. As a child he had been

thrown into a hot, scolding hot tub of

water. It must be noted that concept of

the term hot should be understood to

conclude that he had received such a

dramatic increase in temperature that his

pale pink skin with a washed-out green hue

did develop a redness not pure.

To continue, the ritual determined, the self

reflects the self. Is the self. Yet he

found her cold in the eyes. Fingers met the

division of forms with a pinch. Then some

manner of sparks on the hot skin. A brush swung does impact and expose the self to

pain, or a matter of self as debris.

A brush swung.

Although we have determined the matter

closed we will not speak without voicing

the well intentions we wish to display. He

could remember that three angles sat at the

end of the bridge, on a pile of skids. He

had remembered the pile of skids.

The bridge welled with sounds in this night

before that Saturday morning. He had seen

the train coming with its one light. The wind

was heavy with breaking sounds. The

vibrations around his form were in the same

rhythmic panic. A panic had determined

itself upon the situation. He was filled

with an urge to jump off the bridge.

Now we see the debris around the world

in the same frame of perspective. An

ability to transcend the sense of weather.

Determined to exist in a fluid state. We

must provide the fluid inertia. Yet he was

filled with the urge to jump. It seemed the only unpredictable thing he could do.

The chance that he will somehow fall in

front of the train is greater than the

chance that he would jump. He did not

think of it as suicide.

He did not calculate the net result.

______________________________________

Unpredictable.

To exist in a state which is not probable

in any remote sense of the term. To be

unpredictable he would find his voice. For

the world needs a voice.

I will be voiceless. I will remain

neutral.

For this Saturday morning he would face an

added dilemma, the foot or so of snow.

Each step would be weighted with a

pronounced exertion requirement, thus

the debris. The dimensions had produced a condition. An event postponed. The snow

mangled an alternative path to the

destination.

There had been no snow gathered upon the

edge, outside the rail, of the bridge. He

could hasten his arrival by traversing the

outer edge of the bridge.

Here space fills and the depth is fully in

view. He could gather the surface of the

river in his whole view beneath his feet.

He had once rested upon the edge of the

bridge on a hot night in August. In this

time he had felt the vibrations from an

oncoming train. He had dared to believe

that he would jump.

Would jump. He would jump off the bridge

and find the texture of the water with his

body. He would fill the river with his

body of debris.

This Saturday morning the radio reported

that Harrisburg had been shut down by the

snow. Yet he must still get to work.

There was always work to be done. He would

fill the screen with data. He would

compare the text of the day with the text

of the previous day. He would not fail.

There was a bridge to set him on his way.

An edge.

He had found the edge and would come to

reach the other shore by traveling upon

the edge.

He could not stop the pace he had

initiated. Small patches of debris slid

over the edge and into the water.

Green glass ball bearings rolled beneath

the heavy texture of his army boots. He

was fortunate to have them.

Prepared for the weather.

A man is never prepared for the weather,

rather his appreciative of its potential.

Debris stuck in his throat had made him

cough. he felt as though he could fall.

As a small boy he had been chased around

the streets of Harrisburg by his brother,

who swung at him with an ornamental, blunt

sword or saber. He had found the sense of

drama addictive.

To envision a pose. He had seen the pose

of his brother swinging the saber in a

circular motion above his head. A certain

pose suggesting a menace, or an ill

intention.

But he was much faster than his brother.

Had sliced, or rather, ripped open the bag

of groceries he carried in. There the new

debris filled the hallway. A bottle of

tomato juice had created some red form on

the white linoleum floor. He had only

enough time to exist. He did not look

behind him but he could feel and hear his

brother’s manic form giving chase.

And now the edge of a bridge he found

his own form filled with a sense of debris.

_______________________________________

There was a bridge, or some thought. To

reach the dimensions of drama required a

previous construction of the event. he had

prepared himself to sleep. he would not

venture out. Every network closed.

A placement of debris had filled the paths.

Across a bridge. here there was the one

path open to his flow. To move toward the

river.

He would traverse the river. He would

cross the path. A man across a path. Yet

he was sure of the night before. He had felt cool with air. This was not the

last night but rather some night. Perhaps

an August night, but he had been tied to the

weather before.

To let go. The weather is sure of the

outcome. You can be sure. Here has the

weather come.

The weather has come into the perspective.

There is a narrow dimension to view. He

must traverse the bridge to arrive on time.

This was not to be a simple measured

thing. He must walk on the edge. he had

once decided to jump, but he did not.

There was a concept of drama, yet there was

no sense of it at the time.

I must cross the tracks.

The bridge held a path, a mere infrequent

network to the main line. When a train

would break the space or zone wherein

he would reach the bridge through, is wait

would exceed twenty minutes. He would most

likely be late for work. He must be there

on time.

This instant had come wherein he could

conceivably break the plane before the

train cuts it off. Here the train will

sever the network, will delay his

arrival. He must reach the plane first.

The train conductor shook his fist at the

brash young man. He had been felling tired

for days.

I have felt tired for many days. I would

write with my right hand as if a child, for

I write with my left. Could not conceive.

The judgments hid oneself from the proper

perspectives.

The bodies define themselves. Once, while

trying to tune a guitar, the string snapped

and lacerated the meaty part of the outside

of his right hand. Did not notice the

pain, yet soon some reddish debris

pronounced itself. Then follows a pain.

He is sharp with the sensation. It is not the intention, but rather the

result.

While the body can barely see itself fully,

he is aware of the complete form. A step

will take him closer. He had tried many

counting games to trick his sense of time.

Yet it would always drag on. He could

never get across fast enough.

Once, he had tried to jog. While this cut

the time down dramatically, the energy

usage, as a whole, dramatically increased

to such a high pronounced degree that the

time spent to recover his senses inevitably

exceed the time it would take to quietly

walk across the bridge.

So he would walk across the bridge.

______________________________________

Horror. The mirror in the river did not

present a clear perspective. Had he slipped?

He remembers brushing a lucid green glass

ball bearing beneath his feet. Had he

slipped?

Three angels sat at the end of a bridge on

a pile of wooden skids. To get rid of, or

to get oneself rid of, or to have himself

removed.

He had once thought that a man could be

removed by merely signing a sheet of paper.

You must have a signature.

Somehow people felt an admiration, despite

the leery perspective. To be constantly

shading the clarity of the language in

order to conceal any possible negative

connotation directed toward any individual

or group.

he had felt a sense of vision but he was

sure of their forms. Three angels sat at

the end of a wooden bridge on a pile of

wooden skids. I suppose we were not

comfortable with his role in the whole

affair.

A vicar delivers lemon water to her chamber

every night.

Ostras.

A solution without vision is useless. A

proper strength is gained with the

network of her ideals, not within the

aspect of self as an acting

participant. He had held a sacred view

of her for many times in many days.

Who could afford to dress every child in

the world? I have no money. You would

unite the two networks or simply offer a

little used branch to divert the load.

Would a train not meet him every night and

every Saturday morning?

This night he would jump. It is always the

presence without form that commands a

perspective. He had prepared to deny her

the privilege. A clear issue will loom

over the small forests upon the ridge that

the rail guided.

Pacify the city. Harrisburg is shut down.

He has found a bridge to traverse. He will walk

upon the edge.

He will dream of falling.

_____________________________________

Inkerman

 

1.

hyper (as in a remedy). He would not

hold her. He would not kiss her.

Bathes in the stream with but one rag to

conceal and scrub with.

as in a remedy.

a planed curve. Splash. The time we

spent together. They had spent much

time together.

While we remain in the shadow.

when all the leaves fall through the

figure formed.

A dense plain. And the mob chased her

into a church where they dragged her in

to a church and there killed her.

as in a dense plain.

the ancients to a mythical people.

There was a spiritual twist to the whole

affair. The text, not the drama, had

sensed a position of eternal spring and

eternal youth.

Hyperboreans Does he love her? Does

he feel a sensation? She had some

measure of influence over him.

 

2.

Tween the root of the tongue and the

larynx. Given breath or whole and

apparent visions. He found visions but

he was not altogether sure of their

truth. Could be a rumor.

He received a thorough training in the

Talmud and went on to become a wandering

scholar in Constantinople. She was in a

state of visions when he happened upon

her. Somehow uninspired, he could never

clearly recall the tale in any of a number

of extensive interviews he had given

in his lifetime.

‘It could be a rumor’,

he would always say.

written in a spirit of sincere and

humble piety, interspersed with prayers

and colloquies between Christ and the

devout soul. She shouted at him day and

night. He was not accustomed to such

things. They were an ill fit.

softened by heating to redness and

cooling slowly alloys. The first spoken

moment had been remembered with much

clarity.

3.

It is black pigment. Some spatial

qualities exist despite dark spots.

She shouted at him day and night.

Although she was not a Jew, he could

still love her.

Down on her knees. She was down on her

knees. Writing inks with her fingers a

mixed lampblack with glue or gum. Would

slow the tap outside their window every

night. It belongs to the family and it

has shining leaves.

She laughed when he told her what

non-sequitur meant. “There’s no such

thing”, she said between her laughter.

You have to mean something to say it.

You would hear these taps outside the

window at night during storms. Every

time. The same pattern soon began to

emerge. The grapes downstairs had been

left out and would soon lose their

chill.

Down on her knees.

Toils in a fluid medium when needed.

Various plant juices of which the brown

juice turns black when in contact.

4.

 

lime. Her silk pajamas had been

hand-made in China. He had slices of

lime delivered to her by one of his

students every night.

The early morning she would find a slice

of lime fresh chilled, on a small blue

onyx plate. With precise measurements

she would pinch the ends of the skin

together to deliver juice into her eyelids

with her dipped fingers.

He had come from an elevated site in the

Crimea called Inkerman. Toils in a

fluid medium when needed.

Innate ideas burst from this ink

swell. Describes the method to her over

and over again. Still she does not

understand. Kisses her on the forehead

once beneath the shadow of the church

spire. She walked around the city walls

until the sun lowed its head of flame.

Could be lowered. She felt her other

self had been lowered into the ground

with but a kiss. Could now determine

the self as contained with him. She

knew that she was not a Jew but she did

not seem to mind.

 

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About Paul Gordon 1358 Articles

Paul Gordon is the publisher and editor of iState.TV. He has published and edited newspapers, poetry magazines and online weekly magazines.
He is the director of Social Cognito, an SEO/Web Marketing Company. You can reach Paul at pg@istate.tv

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