dirt
man digs into dirt
shovels it, builds in it
despises it, yet needs it
he robs from the earth
what it once gave him
sucks from the soil
the nourishment
that sustains him
and once his days are over
and all his deeds are done
six feet more man will dig
until ashes, dust and dirt
are one
homes
dream houses they built
into the side of a valley
dream houses too many
for a quick glance to tally
one is so good
they are all made the same
much like the dreams
that to them lay claim
"which one should our dream home be?"
"this one! no, that one!"
whatever
they're all the same to me
roads
four lanes, six lanes, one lane, two
we spend our lives driving
like pacing animals in a zoo
these roads go in circles
like a promise that's never due
until one day we travel
that final road
from soft inertia
to metallic doom
surfaces
the smooth gleaming surface
hides wires and bolts, sweat and blood
behind pretty facades lie ugly viscera
with which eyes can share no love
an automated transaction
is smooth and clean, like a glove
though within is a hand
that clatters and shakes
the hand of man
in the guise of a hammer
and a threat
and a shove
drops
raindrops on the glass
swallow dirt and dust
a million pulverized fragments
of an entire city
condemned to rust
when the globules dry
and a thousand tiny oceans
vaporize and fly
all that's left
is a minuscule metropolis
composed of everything in view
perhaps even including
a bit of me and you
a thousand little worlds in miniature
frozen on the glass
caught between our eyes
and a city
rolling gently past
rooms
inanimate objects in a room
flies hovering overhead
dull midday light streaming in
busy sounds of a city
buzzing
alone
the time that has passed
and the time that will come
are one
despite the memories
and the adventures
despite the travels
and the raptures
and the failures
here I sit
alone in a room
feeling nothing
and with nothing to do
wondering what will come
corners
on a cold street corner
an old man selling old shoes
drinks hot tea from a paper cup
even now, at the end of his years
there's no reward
for a hard life lived
no sense or deliverance
for all the toil and the pain
children and grandchildren
don't laugh and play
where he lives
and memories are no comfort
anymore
the hypnotic trance
of those rushing by
people with coded duties
carved into their minds
leaves no trace
on that senescent face
silent and still
withered with age
yet oblivious of time
and so he sits
in gentle grace
forgotten and abandoned
by his own race
on a cruel corner
gazing out in the winter haze
just old shoes and paper cups
to measure out his days
the great river
the great river's waves whisper gently against the shore
the huge stacks of white clouds tower over summer skies
the sunlight glistens off the blades of grass in the late afternoon
birds, insects, people, each in their own worlds
each may as well be universes apart
i sit on the bench, sip my tea, and let the time
pass gently, slowly
reeds
people rush by in the summer heat
busy men with busy mouths and hands in busy machines
busy with duties and jobs and things
nobody even sees
the reeds swaying gently in the breeze
ant
on the podium
racing men receive their trophies
the anthems play and the champagne pops
the people flock to them
they take their pictures
they film them
the women they want to be seen with them
a party awaits
to celebrate the glory and heroics of a day
the music ends, the people disperse
the laughter and the excitement fade
all soon to be a faint memory
remembered only in statistics
but I still remember clearly, at one point
a lone ant wandered onto the stage
circled someone's feet
then disappeared
old man
An old man
packed his things and left
he dragged his case three yards
and realized the wheels
were on the other end
so he turned his case around
the right way
and, satisfied
went on his way
back to the bus
that would take him back somewhere
where, perhaps
somebody loved him
urchin
on one side of the iron gate
the young gathered to drink and talk
and enjoy the last light of the day
sitting out in chairs as the sun set
with laughter full of confidence and strength
the world seemed as if at their feet
behind the iron gate
on the other side of the gate
the orphaned street girl
made a little space for herself
from three pieces of cardboard
and she laid behind it
as if it were a home in the world
with nothing to do
but sleep or wait to go back out on the street
and beg again for food or money
she sat just a meter away
quietly listening to the youths on the other side
trying to make sense of their lives and words
trying to make sense of a world
she knew nothing of
trying to make sense of the fortunate ones
trying to make sense of what it must be like
to live in a world that had a place for you
and accepted and perhaps even loved you
she laid there silent and still
listening with nothing to say
as the final rays of day
faded slowly away
bug
a diagonal traverse
across a blade of grass
first one side
then the other
up and down
and then out of sight
forever
a bug is small for this world
and long long days bind us all
stars
my shadow swims across the sand
every grain a billion years old
every step sinks into the ages
and the sun gives eyes
to all its creatures
revealing beings
to themselves
baffled that we exist
knowing knowing knowing
in the immense cold darkness
the stars are our only sages
power
the mind’s invisible power
manifests only in its effect
the power of water lies in its depth
the power of light in its speed
the power of earth in its mass
and what power is left for man
is but a lonely separation
from a universe indifferent
to even his craftiest transgression
