RENDEZVOUS WITH DENSITY
(Philadelphia, 2/21/09)
There are a million ways of progressing.
The lines of every disclaimer, tendentious and
narrow, speak volumes about both politics and life.
Men with guns, slaves and servants forever, walk
secretly towards internal death while following an
inclination to live. Clouds dive, winds howl,
fire comes flying out from caves and tunnels.
Along the street - Walnut or Market or something -
wild men on crates stand forth and harangue the crowd.
Loudspeakers somehow have granted them an ignorant
man's power - the words are rash and too large for
their simple mouths. Yet, they go on.
They are flanked, incredibly, with crossed-armed
guards while, behind them from a van hang
large signs proclaiming their rant. The vans are
probably filled with guns, as the words are filled
with hate. Vitriol seeps. They play-act their
broadcast anger : howling, yelping, wanting.
I enjoy the joy, howling back myself - just as
adept at finding their negative points as they
are, the same, in finding mine. Two worlds
collide, in a silent collision no one can hear.
The sidewalks are coated with their Winter
glaze. People, walking carefully, watch
their way and avoid their gaze.
Endless like this, everything
seems the same; both
heavy and dense.
(Philadelphia, 2/21/09)
There are a million ways of progressing.
The lines of every disclaimer, tendentious and
narrow, speak volumes about both politics and life.
Men with guns, slaves and servants forever, walk
secretly towards internal death while following an
inclination to live. Clouds dive, winds howl,
fire comes flying out from caves and tunnels.
Along the street - Walnut or Market or something -
wild men on crates stand forth and harangue the crowd.
Loudspeakers somehow have granted them an ignorant
man's power - the words are rash and too large for
their simple mouths. Yet, they go on.
They are flanked, incredibly, with crossed-armed
guards while, behind them from a van hang
large signs proclaiming their rant. The vans are
probably filled with guns, as the words are filled
with hate. Vitriol seeps. They play-act their
broadcast anger : howling, yelping, wanting.
I enjoy the joy, howling back myself - just as
adept at finding their negative points as they
are, the same, in finding mine. Two worlds
collide, in a silent collision no one can hear.
The sidewalks are coated with their Winter
glaze. People, walking carefully, watch
their way and avoid their gaze.
Endless like this, everything
seems the same; both
heavy and dense.
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