Today, on the streets of NYC
or London, I passed a future president
in his stride, and I passed a disgraced
soldier, discharged for discharging
a round of ammunition on his friend,
I passed a man whose uncle was
Neil Armstrong, and a woman whose
face was drenched in acid by
an evil ex-boyfriend.
I was walking along the Champs Elysees,
today, when I smiled at a man who
is a relative of Gustav Eiffel, perhaps
even his grandson, or more. He was wearing
a suit, a normal, plainly dressed man
blending in.
Today, as I wandered past the skyline of
Vancouver, Chicago, Shanghai, a little girl
cried, and cried and cried. She’s to become the
scientist to cure cancer, the common cold,
or more. She has blonde pigtails and a giant
pink ribbon in her hair.
Underneath the Japanese bloom,
the leader of a gang stopped in front
of me to admire the white blossom,
and I did the same. Perhaps we
shared a word or two, me not knowing this man’s
crime. He not knowing mine.
Underneath all bloom in all the world,
seven billion future presidents,
seven billion disgraced soldiers,
descendants of astronauts,
acid scoured people,
seven billion Mr or Mrs Eiffels,
seven billion cancer curers,
and mob leaders walk their walk
and talk their talk.
No beacon shines upon them
and no beacon ever will.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
Today, on the streets of NYC
or London, I passed a future president
in his stride, and I passed a disgraced
soldier, discharged for discharging
a round of ammunition on his friend,
I passed a man whose uncle was
Neil Armstrong, and a woman whose
face was drenched in acid by
an evil ex-boyfriend.
I was walking along the Champs Elysees,
today, when I smiled at a man who
is a relative of Gustav Eiffel, perhaps
even his grandson, or more. He was wearing
a suit, a normal, plainly dressed man
blending in.
Today, as I wandered past the skyline of
Vancouver, Chicago, Shanghai, a little girl
cried, and cried and cried. She’s to become the
scientist to cure cancer, the common cold,
or more. She has blonde pigtails and a giant
pink ribbon in her hair.
Underneath the Japanese bloom,
the leader of a gang stopped in front
of me to admire the white blossom,
and I did the same. Perhaps we
shared a word or two, me not knowing this man’s
crime. He not knowing mine.
Underneath all bloom in all the world,
seven billion future presidents,
seven billion disgraced soldiers,
descendants of astronauts,
acid scoured people,
seven billion Mr or Mrs Eiffels,
seven billion cancer curers,
and mob leaders walk their walk
and talk their talk.
No beacon shines upon them
and no beacon ever will.
