Sometimes, You Know, The Wheels Just Come Off

Sometimes, seen in the right — or wrong frame of mind — the world feels like an incredibly intricate, interlinked pool table. In one such frame of mind, I got the idea for this poem.

Sometimes, you know, the wheels just come off

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Out of infinite stories, one rises from the veil 

exiting a library rich with stories.

A  few telescope through webs of time

gossamer of real and unreal

interstices of history’s reference points

the rest unavailable books on endless shelves

They are there.

We are here.

Standard operating procedure:

Look for meaning in everything.

Anything can be meaningless

Accident usurps a moment

We scramble, as if trapped,

only meaning can release us.

“Why?”

We think hard about it

Myths make a bed for meaning.

But sometimes, you know, the wheels just come off

You hit the road wrong,

you’re the sorry asshole struck by lightning

Chemicals flip a switch that

trips you far back into another time,

breaks through and sticks.

The continuum strings through our lives

all our lives

the different names and circumstances

the different roles

In what next transition will we intersect again

in what odd next universe, strangers at one?

 

David Stone is a New York City based writer whose most recent book is 21 Poems. He also wrote a memoir: The Witch Next Door,

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