Archive for September, 1976


Tuesday, September 7th, 1976

         What strange weeds the winter leaves us here
         in the stark sunlight after our lusty cheer.
         And with what wondrous clarity the mirrors shine
         and show the one that was, against the one that's left behind.

         I can't see, but the clarity aches my eyes,
         through these transient passages wove with immoral cries.
         And we weave and wind our parts and thine
         just gamblers come to meet
         in a place where nothing lasts.

                                 7 September 76

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —


Tuesday, September 7th, 1976

         I'm not sure where I'm going, save getting old.
         I can't remember the dreams that held me
         through the passages of my twenties.

         The snow drifts in my door
         and the newspapers talk more to me.
         I think I'd like to be free
         but I can't recall what it would mean.
         I've tried idealism, and then lust
         and seen nothing but history's crust
         and brighter chrome.

         There's more, but I'm not sure what.
         I've been adrift so long
         I can't recall what it means to stand
         grounded and know something...anything.

         In some attempt to chart the river,
         I've been swept away.
         And I'm not sure just what it is I want or need
         but I wish I'd find it, I need to find that seed.

         I can see the snowdrifts piled so high
         beneath the arc-lit sun that wheels so swiftly now
         that the calendar pages fairly strobe.

                              7 september 76

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

1976-09-13 Dying highs

Monday, September 13th, 1976

                          Dying highs

            It doesn't matter what you do to yourself
            it all comes to the same end;
            cafeine speeds you up,
            grass slows you down.
            The lack of sleep fogs you up
            and math clears you out.
            Its all part of the same game
            going down to where you die.

            You been running all you life...running down.
            What does it matter how you do it?
            Its just like the illusion that
            there's somewhere to get to
            There's nothing to hold onto, either.
            We're dying constantly in an endless
            progression to nowhere
            although we struggle to believe otherwise.

            We're always trapped here, in the now,
            and we fail to see it as the window it is
            into the greater truth
            with all its beginnings and endings.
            Somehow, though we're given the power
            to imagine almost anything,
            we find it the hardest to imagine the truth.

                                    13 september 76

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —