Compulsively Aimless

TV Test Pattern It was the end back when TV stations shut off and went to bed like the rest of the civilized world I would watch till the last of the late, late movies ended till the flag waving star-spangled banner or the poem having touched the hand of God I looked on helpless until my last companion turned away posting a sign on the door a test pattern of lines and numbers commanded by determined Indian in a head dress You knew it was the end because after one last desperate twist of the dial through thirteen UHF channels there was desolation and off you went to dream under a blanket of white static.

Misty Mountain Review: Two poems by John Kropf

Riding the Rails Riding the 6pm Acela from New York to Washington under an overcast May sky can be like living a life. You emerge from a dark tunnel crawling through open spaces soon leaving them behind picking up speed moving into new scenes until you’re traveling at 90 mph *** Outside Philadelphia worn out row houses under tired skies list like the hulks of stranded boats that once floated on a vibrant ocean long ago evaporated. Neighborhood streets still lead toward decrepit brick factories falling down like abandoned temples places that once promised a new life to someone’s immigrant grandma and grandpa remembered in family stories after the generations moved on but the houses remained sunk on foundations in neighborhoods colored only by brash graffiti painted at night and green sumac consuming black iron bridges and chain link fences over the decades as silver trains blow by on the hour past dead stories of old lives the tr...