There's a thrill and you fall into it again as you forget Rubberneck contagion Anxieties in the upper regions though, no gut disturbance a strange observation process
-without that hinderance Hopped up, the witness Gaze upon a brewing formation Linger tensions Fears shoot up from the deep Like ghosts and demons Around every corner and shadowed path In yr house, when you were young Still perhaps..
you let it bite and a car pulls up Single pointed aggression And we proceed Such a wonder Not really but the feelings procession of instincts habitual And we choose fractions Be important because we believe what the F* does that even mean? Can you go through the process To figure the dimensions of a form..
Listen for a moment; He says he's drunk but really asking to be loved and miraculously it worked off he walked to oblivion if only we had the guts to follow
..I may have gone deeper Than I can dig, up a figure anyway But it's never a settled point So there's always room to play around
I wait on a little island Marooned in the sea of traffic The grey sky broadcasts sweet outcomes To the farmer in me But the lack of an umbrella Makes my mind jittery I'm vulnerable in my suit, tie and all If the sky should burst open its floodgates Where will I find shelter, with my laptop and phone? Hurry Mr. Driver Spur on that staff bus!
Glenarah and Robert Mugabe roads intersection in Harare
The earth is black on both sides. The yellow bus taking the living away passes pile after pile of rubble, of signs that were once there: the Harley Davidson store, The Rogue Action Center- a nonprofit climate change group, the community bank - it’s vault the only thing standing. Indistinguishable from the ash is the mobile home park, which once housed the migrants that harvested the town’s fabled pears. Only their metal survived the wildfires: aluminum lawn chairs, a barbecue pit, hubcaps of cars long since evacuated. Among the stranded survivors is the aged widower searching impossibly for his wife’s ashes. He had escaped and settled here after the Paradise fires took his previous home two years back. Crows on charred oaks branches watched and mock his effort. He looked all around him and wondered to God if he had paid enough grief dues. When the bus stopped for him he did not get on.
Little hands Soft and velveteen Shiny eyelids Tired and drooping Long lashes Looking down at the ground A small mask To fit his round face With a childish print Of his favorite hero Shy and quiet With delicate limbs Putting on his large backpack Almost home Invulnerable To the screams of the others As lightning strikes Beyond the fields of corn Body jostled As the bus bumps along Dull jade eyes Peering through the window Staring at the rain Behind the glass
I wrote this about a young boy on my bus who sits across from me.