The Collector

 

The Collector

•

this day as I journey
I come upon a stranger
standing by the road looking sad
heavy box held in his arms
clutched close to his breast

he stares into my eyes expressionless
his gaze stops me still
fixes me in place

his face is tired and drawn
etched in withered worry

when at last I move
I draw close enough to see
this sullen man is me

everyone is born with some special talent
he sighs
I am a collector
of tears shed in moonlight
the pain of love’s betrayal
the grief of empty lives

he concludes
and offers out his hands
that open on the box

he beckons me retrieve
this container he protects

filled with apprehension
I reach and grasp the case
lift it cautiously from his grip
lay it gently at my feet

it opens as I do
slowly
to reveal its strange contents

three lone broken hearts


mute with wonder I behold
confused yet riveted
I ponder haunted as I do
then inquire of the meaning

these are yours
I am told

created by your deeds
cruelly left behind
as coldly you moved on

each belonged to one who trusted you
a trust you did betray
without a second thought
love you tossed aside
abandoned carelessly

now the burden of this box
is mine beyond the grave

eyes lowered in fatigue he exhales

it was on a road like this
that it was passed to me
I have carried it too long
I am weary from the load

looking into my eyes he points

now you must bend and lift
and clutch it to your breast
to struggle with its weight
until you pass it on

searching the distance he goes on

someday a stranger will approach
over that horizon
he will stop and stare
transfixed by your presence

you will charge him with this chest
then he will lift and carry
as I do
in this cycle of forever

for he too
will be you

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• photo collage entitled “Broken Broken Broken” – by: rob kistner © 2010
_______________________________

…see other special talents at Carry On Tuesday

The Book(s)

Two books that changed everything for me — “On The Road” by Jack Kerouac,

and “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test” by Tom Wolfe.

I was a disenchanted-college-student-rock-musician and had just been awakened by the ’67 Summer of Love, when I came upon both of these books in the Spring of 1968 in a bookstore in Clifton, Ohio, just down from the Ludlow Garage, where my band, Stone Fox, had just opened for the Allman Brothers and Santana.

These books fueled my frustration with “the system”, sparked my wanderlust, and eventually found me and my three best friends, astride internal combustion iron horses, young men heading west — and thus began the rest of my life.

What these books represented was not a map for the rest of my life, I’m well beyond that angst. Rather, they’re important to me because they were the catalyst that first ignited my genuine independent thought, and empowered me to act on that thinking.

Following here is a poem I wrote which reflects, quite well, where my head was during that period. You can also click on the highlighted passage young men heading west in the previous paragraph to read a poem I wrote about the motorcycle journey.

 

Bohemian Nightfall

•

when night fell on bohemia
the streets were set ablaze
in black light
in strobe light

it was tie-dyed psychedelia
when night fell on bohemia

jack and neal were on the road
ridin’ with the fire-whores
of angst and indignation
like combustin’ carnal fireballs
when night fell on bohemia

allen was howlin’
pal’n with corso
and long’n for peter

hunter, groin deep
in the brain-drug flesh festival
…hunter was fearful
and loathing it all
when night fell on bohemia

bill, stark naked
was lunchin’ with the devil
jelly-rollin’ in a hell fire
when night fell on bohemia

gary headed for cold mountain
to watch it all from sourdough
electric bob went subterranean

me – stung by disenchantment
the swollen outlaw bastard
coming fast
hard as holy hell
cresting and crashing in
just as night fell on Bohemia

I was on my way
howling mad
and mind-expanded
in a rolling demon’s fire,
lighting the night
dancing with beelzebub
raving and blazing
hormone’d-hungry
lusting and longing to gorge
every forbidden morsel and crumb –

the smorgasborgadelic mindfeast

when night fell on bohemia
ken and tim
gathered up the faithful
on the magic bus
and stole off with the future

like pranksters

ever further

• • •
rob kistner © 2008

…this post was inspired by sunday scribblings