Nothing Much...

[found here at lone xylophone]

Nothing Worth Mentioning

November house on the road to nowhere
its rusted sign for vacancy
a Northstar to compassless
young people chasing every nightmare
they never bothered mentioning.
Nine volt voices grow static
in the crackle snip snap darkness
while endlessly rehearsing
the first six verses of nothing
new under the sun.

Old people stare out of sightless
eyes at nothing--
well, nothing worth mentioning
in asphalt forests where everything
falls without sound.
Rocking chairs wear ruts
like the Oregon Trail acorss
front porches, in living rooms
with insomniac zombies
drunk on the late, late, late show.

November house on the road to nowhere
beckons with echoed chantings
and captivates fading consciousness
that comprehends
only a sinuous cycle of
death and life a single cry.
Winnowed minds gone amoebic
flinch dark flinch bright
to the shifting light of a mythic lie
and Carl Jung, a macabre-masked face,
dances around the pyre.