Tuesday, January 1, 2019




I will poison your vision
with the luxury of longing
& the arrogance of regret.

Even in the darkest places
I will have you pine for teacups
&civility immune to hindrance,

for a place that exists only in
recesses of damaged hearts,
working limited hours to

achieve this larger scheme’s
impossible actions, the deceptive
charade of Hollywood romance,

infecting hope with vertigo
&a restless churning of lust
because the very end reveals

an incendiary illusion
burning bone to dust
in the searing flames

of hot rampant desire,
a waking dream disturbed
leaving nothing but want.


Head is off wandering
while heart wrestles fears
&legs dance to music
that propels & inspires
beyond dirty gutters
to states of deeper
We are on the move.
Modern smells differ
from what attended
horses& heroes
of recent centuries.
Now we battle festering rot,
garbage that will not decompose,
reflecting our stubborn ways.
We are present,
if not accounted for.
Advanced chemical aerosols
cover olfactory annoyance,
destroying the atmosphere,
providing pretend aroma
to mask the sour,
the fetid, the real.
We are civilized & motile
in a world of restless abandon,
where speed is required,
racing against the melt,
the fickle stink of passing seasons,
the rage of advancing age.


The soothsayer is a fool.
You only realize this now.
You’re decommissioned &
deconstructed, believing
history repeats like acid reflux.

Nothing gets left behind.
Still, you rue the day,
test its mettle, seize the Latin
phrase that warns smugly
of what conquers what and when.

You’ve heard it all before,
heard the sizzle of the cannonball
flying past the obvious, heading
straight for the metaphor,
the solar plexus of us. Fired.

The faucet drips incessantly,
reminding of time’s slow flood.
Tears gather, currents occur
&a gulf stream of comprehension
warms those who reminisce.

It’s another natural disaster,
footage for the evening news,
crushing & unexpected,
though by now there’s always
suspicion waylaying foundations.

The testimony sounds familiar:
sentencing without punctuation,
limited expressions to capture
a future where anything’s possible
but another false conclusion.


Avert your eyes
from my emotional scars;
let me sit & plan my past.

Life is revision, yet starker.
Truth once illuminated
shadow-filled corners.

Now a numbed populace
gets triggered by bots
in bouts of misplaced anger.

Tears spill out the corner
of an eye-patch, silent testament
to wrongness of silence.

Marauding murderers of credence
stand at podiums daily,
deflecting queries, answering none.

These are the pirates of our age,
having boarded our democracy
& hijacked stores of outrage.

When so much is wrong,
it is impossible to focus,
&every gangplank leads nowhere.

The Jolly Roger is jolly no more,
waving white flags instead
in eternal winds a-blowing.

Cold and clammy, we gaze
from this crow’s nest and wait
for salvation beyond this horizon.


Grownups lectured
your problem is misguided perspective.
It’s not the television show that matters,
commercials are what drive the medium.
It’s not how fast or fleet the boxer may be,
it’s how well he deflects a jab,
recovers from what seems a glancing blow.
It’s not the bright colors in the middle,
but subtle shadows that lend paintings depth & life.

Someday, they muttered, you’ll change.
You’ll reach an age when practicality
&common sense will override
this predisposition for silly irreverence.

Time forges forward,
an unstoppable flow
that rushes ever faster
each ensuing year.
Yet pride is resistance,
defiance a benchmark
against what others see
as inevitability.


GARY GLAUBER is a poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist.  His works have received multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. He champions the underdog to the melodic rhythms of obscure power pop. His two collections, Small Consolations (Aldrich Press) and Worth the Candle (Five Oaks Press), and a chapbook, Memory Marries Desire (Finishing Line Press), are available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and directly from the publishers.

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