{ A convergence of Aldous Huxley and Robert Heinlein,
      where waiting for Godot was traditionally done.}

Transmissive functionality fixed rate
to find words for any mindstate

words to physiologize and reify a wish

to be touched back, felt reaching
through the laminated plane flat re-
ality of thought,

through the space betwixt
us, me and you, in the meandering stream
feeling it's way toward the storied yesterdays,

minding many material reasons, whys for how,
whens for now,
then for earlier or later, waiting is time…

at terminal velocity.
Waiting is.
========
Grok is a technical term, you know.
Time is a technical term, too.

When all things worked together, once,
then fell apart
to form mere fanciful guessings,
informative immaterial instructions
for users, musing using local particle facts.

at terminal velocity eventually, we fall
with the evening smoothing
into airless, fretless

soothing irrelevance,

empty states without perspective ups or downs.

Post haste waste reclamation, I'd say it all again, if it gets to here.

I knew she was bad news
when we met
at Terminal One in Vegas,
but my thinking brain
was in limbic limbo
— strong-armed
by the scent of Cinnabon
and new car smell.

You might say we got lucky.
What are the odds of finding
a chapel open at midnight?

Supposing that you didn't need to be terminal, is there a queue?
The cop-out brigade would be cashing in - all the others too;
we've had enough, not only illness but silliness and mindless,
lack of care, selfishness and all those who couldn't worry less.

Could reduce the population, no worry about copulation,
have ten kids if you want, economics, spell it with a 'C' decision;
clear the housing list, no one's bothered if you even get ******,
so convenient,Trumps kissed, played last hand in knock-out whist.

The queue is mounting outside that room in Switzerland mon ami,
I'm fed  up with my life, I'm going before you can sentence me,
how ironic, free up the prisons, no need for any more decisions,
although cemeteries filling, keep my ashes unless other visions.

The ultimate in democracy, free will, but others moaning still,
there's a waiting list, might die before I die - on Calvary Hill.

it's all occupied with dark fumes of flatulence
      the bus hanger
          it's teething and earning      a low ceilinged thrive

regularly cleaned    the roof portal
   with a large drooping eye
          brags of blue sky
the coaches are idling
   fretful   to be burdened and go

elsewhere
the public urinals
there's a strong smell of iron
are the morning users dehydrated
  malnourished or ill ?
i feel a little flated

elsewhere
in the waiting area
   a neatly turned out teen
    wants to give their seat to the infirm
does not     and hurts inside  averting
(a public act of courtesy
   would   after all   be an embarrassing one)

attention back to the importance
my friend has ungreeted me
  i have wished him ease
  and he has passed between the cordons
amongst amiable cattle
  he pauses at the authorities verification
who   in turn
   tails them to load up their luggage
                    and become their driver

                             - goodbye my friend

There's no easy
Way of asking
I already know
What he's going
To say but
Maybe he just
Needs to say it
So I ask
Him anyway
"Are you scared?"

Only smiles
And a patience
I've never seen
In the face  
Of someone
Who knows
That they
Are dying

If there is another thing beyond this one I shall meet it

Seeing beyond the futures of tomorrows not yet lived

There is a place I feel it I'll meet you there

Please,
Please don’t leave this way
You don’t know
I don’t have much time left
to stay.
Please give me a hug
Let me hold you one more time
Soon it will be too late
if it goes the predictable way.
Please.......
tears don’t come out
I don’t want to break this heart
Not yet anyway.

Shell✨🐚

After their separation, she used to joke
that they’d get back together when
- and only when - one of them
was on their deathbed.  Well, it
wasn’t quite a prophecy, but it did land
painfully close.

Almost fifteen years since they’d last met,
he caught a plane, got picked up from the airport by
a stepson, long estranged, who
brought him to the hospice.
Seeing her there, in a terminal tangle of tubes
pumping drugs into her veins and
oxygen into her riddled lungs, he said:
“But she looks exactly the same,” and
if that isn’t code for, “Yes, I’m
still in love with her,” then
I don’t know
what is.

The next day, he bought her flowers,
fretting over floral symbolism
and how his bouquet could be interpreted.
Their daughter advised,
“Just pick something pretty,” so he chose
pink roses, stargazer lilies.  Of course
she loved them.  They were
from him.  
“Do you remember,” she asked him, as leaves
fell from tall trees outside the window,
“when we were the beautiful people?”

The flowers outlived her,
if you
really want to
talk about
symbolism.