Wednesday, August 5, 2015


This life has been shut to me, closed and
beyond all meaning  -  the torn-off advertising
banner tells me nothing now, only the marks
and the bleatings of individual man. Crazy folk,
incessant upon leaving marks. Signatories to the
note of no return. Lost warriors on a field of battle.
Above my head, the fourteen floors of windows and
a yellow building painted to look like steam; a cloud
pattern of flow and ebb, things reflected in old windows.
I can't see the forest for the trees  -  no, that's wrong. I
can't see a thing at all. Plus, I am weary so, of all these
encountered urgings. Buy. Sell. Get. Have.
Give me the pantaloons of some Christopher Columbus
instead, urging new lands for the Queen and the King.
Taking precious moments to pray, seeking the romantic
virgin in the deep, dark forest of a new, enticing world.
Oh, would that it were like that; it wasn't. Even he was
after better ways to get the gold and spices, find the
trade-route never found, catch all that lucre in the
ground, 'bring home the bacon' that he'd found.

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