Chrome

Standard

Rows upon rows

of identical 3-bedroom homes

say “success,”

but where are all the

happy families?

Wrought-iron statues

depicting long-dead

historical figures

say “tradition,”

but what happened

to all the sculptors

and scholars?

An assembly line of shining,

suped-up cars —

plastic fenders

sprayed with glinting chromium

paint says “progress,”

but what have we

left behind?

A wide-open field

of gleaming

gilded lilies swaying

in the breeze

says “prosperity,”

but where did all the food go?

———————————-

Instagram: @thefilepile

Facebook: The File Pile

Feedback Loops

Standard

It happened again.

When you can’t undo

you can retrace your steps.

“Walk me through it,”

you hear from right behind you,

it was your own tail insisting.

But your directions

fall on deaf ears –

your great fear

is that you’ve now

lost your place.

But it’s right

under your nose,

tantalizingly close —

I know that feeling well.

“What are you not getting?”

It’s always a game of catch-up

or keep away.

Maybe you can tell,

I don’t have all the answers,

I thought I’d been

making waves,

but all I’ve done is dig ruts

and kick-up dust.

Let’s try again.

———————————-

Instagram: @thefilepile

Facebook: The File Pile

Cash Crops

Standard

When you have what you need

you live in abundance.

Like clockwork,

we move,

shed, molt,

go dormant

and emerge anew,

something ventured,

something gained

and something left behind.

To sow and reap,

you must

slash and burn,

you must preen and prod

and above all else,

you must stay diligent.

Unceremonious

we cast aside the chaff,

the husks and hulls —

our daily bread’s

last line of defense.

Nothing is redundant.

Time isn’t always borrowed,

it can be rented,

or invested,

or leveraged.

In boomtimes and busts

harvest arrives,

whether you’re ready

or withered on the vine.

———————————-

Instagram: @thefilepile

Facebook: The File Pile

Flip Book

Standard

It was a bad time

to reflect

on what I should have written,

on the world’s last stack of sticky notes.

I ran my thumb over it,

to breathe life,

into my work.

Poorly-drawn, simplistic figures

walked to and fro,

and told each other

sophomoric jokes

until the cardboard showed.

“I could have mapped-out

my every action

months in advance,

or remembered to put on pants,

instead of making stick figures dance.”

I closed the flip book,

and rest it face-down on my desk

ashamed.

It’s all fun and games,

until fun and games interfere

with your daily life.

Needing a chuckle,

I opened it again

to repeat the cartoon anew.

Time well-spent, I say.