WHAT A BLIND,
CRAZY MESS THIS IS
First off, we're going to bite the apple; yes, yes bite.
Like that mysterious Adam in the garden far off,
walking deliriously in a circular motion, we'll shamble
a juba past each obstacle in our path. We'll erect an
edifice and a hurdle in any location we choose.
Fences will not stop us, nor walls, nor doorways.
-
Loft lifts and elevator entries. Piles of rags and
blankets, things with which to cover cargo and
freight. Everything is cast about as if - without
thought - the craven dream has come to life.
I watch the lights from the wall across; their thin
yellow shafts flow from bulbs long past tired worth
and usefulness. So drab, so beat, the shallow
force of the lightbeam itself seems to hesitate
before touching its place.
-
Outside the entryway, where music blares,
someone else has lit a torch. Oddly in place,
its light splays from a barrel and is tended by
men - watchful and sure, they harbor their
feelings about flame and fire jealously, keeping
it close. They want - apparently - both the
warmth and the light it can afford them.
Like misers, they grab every bit of what
they can keep.
-
It's a sad world, seen this way. No one owns
a thing, and what they do have someone else
has already cast off. Everything is in movement,
passing and fading, first being and then disappearing.
We maybe watch shadows and think them so real.
Everywhere is light, illusionary light, showing us
things and then taking them away.
CRAZY MESS THIS IS
First off, we're going to bite the apple; yes, yes bite.
Like that mysterious Adam in the garden far off,
walking deliriously in a circular motion, we'll shamble
a juba past each obstacle in our path. We'll erect an
edifice and a hurdle in any location we choose.
Fences will not stop us, nor walls, nor doorways.
-
Loft lifts and elevator entries. Piles of rags and
blankets, things with which to cover cargo and
freight. Everything is cast about as if - without
thought - the craven dream has come to life.
I watch the lights from the wall across; their thin
yellow shafts flow from bulbs long past tired worth
and usefulness. So drab, so beat, the shallow
force of the lightbeam itself seems to hesitate
before touching its place.
-
Outside the entryway, where music blares,
someone else has lit a torch. Oddly in place,
its light splays from a barrel and is tended by
men - watchful and sure, they harbor their
feelings about flame and fire jealously, keeping
it close. They want - apparently - both the
warmth and the light it can afford them.
Like misers, they grab every bit of what
they can keep.
-
It's a sad world, seen this way. No one owns
a thing, and what they do have someone else
has already cast off. Everything is in movement,
passing and fading, first being and then disappearing.
We maybe watch shadows and think them so real.
Everywhere is light, illusionary light, showing us
things and then taking them away.
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