The burning down there ceased
When the sun rose and the winter
Chill of the wind crept into my
Now lonesome room. She had left
With everything except my soul: My
Heart, my money, my food, my
Dog, my tupperware, my bed sheets,
My favorite table, all of my records, every
Sticky note we wrote together, even the
Lint that was underneath the bed, she took.
The end for all of us comes with a
Short breath from a face that is invisible or
A hand gentle but cold. It comes like a car
Honking before it smashes into the one
Alive crossing the street. The end comes
Like the lost pop of the fire before the moon
Washes away its heat; the end comes and
Goes and comes again like peace and like wartime.
Moving through this, hearing the wails of
Neighbors young ones scream for more
Milk or less of it, landlords weeping into their
Piles of money, couples deafening themselves
With their contemplation of deserting, I see myself
In the mad streets with the cigarette butts all lined
Up like soldiers going off to fight a way not
Their own in their hearts, but only in the their minds.
Each snow flake falls melts and sees a harsh
Sun the flake does not know, yet hates. Each
Friend I have known turns their back on
Themselves for pleasures they do not need.
All of time will halt for that one person who
Who up their arms and says ENOUGH, all of
Time will stop, listen, then move on, some
Writing and listening for a moment, then the
Moment will pass, as the next generation
Waits - unborn & unknowing - for the next.
We generations look onto a lakefront painted silver with
A thin lining of gold around the edges of
The reeds and see the body of love. She breathes
In and out, her lips dry from the winter sun, each
Hand broken so her fingers point in opposite
Directions, her feet the only things still intact after
The long fall from heaven to the ground. People
Gather around her, build shrines they will later
Fight over, arguing who built the shrine first,
Later they will burn the thing down, where all that will be left
Will be the bones of lady love, her hands still twisted,
Her feet still perfectly aligned, resting peacefully
Now around the edges of silver and gold.
Through each glass reflects the sights
We have seen and have not yet seen, regulators
Of the what needs to be done and what needs
To wait so we do not age to fast or too soon.
We do not make the rules, the rules come
From someplace else, a place that has no name,
No boundaries or walls, where generations play
Without a title or responsibility, where all is
Shared and nothing is sacred or blasphemous or
Taboo; where all is one and one is nothing and
Nothing is everything that needs to be just to be.
So see through the illuminated white squares of
Those monster office buildings, housing the sane
Who condemn the opposite, the walls bleeding with
Metallic staples, smelling of felt markers and body
Odor leaking through the men's and women's bathroom,
Money being thrown around like darts at a pool
Hall, the office chairs spinning on their own and the
Wooden tables set aflame by an employee gone wrong.
Observe the sights of man as the animal, them naked
Trying to hold up a conversation or sell a deal, where
Underneath the Devil takes a straight razor to the
Brain, gutting all that was once holy of man & woman.
Hope is a four letter word fueled by action. People
Commit to a cause triumphed by the television and
The radio. We hold the power when we want it, but
When sloth and greed and corruptible seed plant
Themselves in the minds of the good and light, trouble
Ensues, washing away all that has been done like a
Tsunami. Mind the gap of generations, hark not on
What was done in the past, for that worked then, and
This time, our time, is now.
