By: R. J. Keeler
Broken, or tottering on the very edge, or surprisingly dull, or ubiquitously bright, signs consolidate paths to blight. Sign’s best signals can’t always pledge
to importune the next town over; their deep gulch’s neon sign says, Jump! Can we in fact believe it, though? Some choose not to trust such broad passovers;
some may well make that leap of chance, since their only apparent choice is—failure? In any foreign state or mixed-up culture Red usually signals, Come, Let’s Dance.
So, you, back off, back away, trudge home; garishness signals an intrusive un-directive; it presents to us troubles, or stirs up hives. Ignore it, you end up in that gulch as loam.
Born St. Paul, Minnesota. Lived in jungles of Colombia, S.A., up to age twelve. BS Mathematics NCSU, MS Computer Science UNC, MBA UCLA, Certificate in Poetry UW. Honorman, U.S. Naval Submarine School. “SS” (Submarine Service) qualified. Vietnam Service Medal. Honorable Discharge. Whiting Foundation Experimental Grant. P&W's Directory of Poets and Writers. Member IEEE, AAAS, AAP. The Boeing Company. Does not subscribe to the cattle-prod paradigm of poetry. May tend to melancholy.
“Background on the poem itself: circa 12/2017. At least 12 revisions. First draft 12/17/17. Form: four stanzas, four lines each, approximately five stresses per line, rhyme abba.
Genesis of the poem: one day last December I was driving or walking around my local town (maybe it was Seattle) and noticed the plethora of signs of all kinds and motivations—traffic signs, commerce signs, gratuitous signs, pop-art signs, tagged buildings, etc. I thought, instead of Homo sapiens we have become Homo Signage. The poems developed from that first impressions over several revisions.”
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