"transformers" poems - Hello Poetry

The light pollution from the lives of little people in the big city reflects off the lowriding clouds, the same way my knees reflect in the little puddles from the big rains. It hurts my eyes to look up without sunglasses, hurts my lips to think of tasting the subway oil that drip drip drips I speculate at the transformers, part automatic, part people in their pre-ripped jeans, learning to get their Ns to drive themselves away, yarn trailing from their sweaters like parade float streamers. Citizens run so fast to catch the early train home, freefalling down the stairs breathing in the exhales of the other racer’s exhaust. Marking their triumphs with participation ribbons. The pacific pants at toes, a puppy that only occasionally misbehaves. Impatient for attention, waves wagging back and forth, up the imitation river, past the downtown. Kicking the sea wall with it's gravity boots. The geese are on hiatus until they can take back the city. Making the drains overflow, creating their own habitat, they’ll strut their haughty markings, distinguished from orcas, away from any saline nonsense. Were we to retrain the population to turn blind eyes, we’d be much more efficient, stop wasting time contending to society’s obsession with documenting itself. But then, what would we do all day? Creating light pollution must give immediate gratification. Once all the lights are turned off, the influence won’t continue, creating a lack of permanence, making our need to be remembered seem trivial indeed.

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Nov 11, 2013

Nov 11, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC

the-monster-in-the-mirror

Light Pollution

The light pollution from the lives of little people in the big city reflects off the lowriding clouds, the same way my knees reflect in the little puddles from the big rains. It hurts my eyes to look up without sunglasses, hurts my lips to think of tasting the subway oil that drip drip drips I speculate at the transformers, part automatic, part people in their pre-ripped jeans, learning to get their Ns to drive themselves away, yarn trailing from their sweaters like parade float streamers. Citizens run so fast to catch the early train home, freefalling down the stairs breathing in the exhales of the other racer’s exhaust. Marking their triumphs with participation ribbons. The pacific pants at toes, a puppy that only occasionally misbehaves. Impatient for attention, waves wagging back and forth, up the imitation river, past the downtown. Kicking the sea wall with it's gravity boots. The geese are on hiatus until they can take back the city. Making the drains overflow, creating their own habitat, they’ll strut their haughty markings, distinguished from orcas, away from any saline nonsense. Were we to retrain the population to turn blind eyes, we’d be much more efficient, stop wasting time contending to society’s obsession with documenting itself. But then, what would we do all day? Creating light pollution must give immediate gratification. Once all the lights are turned off, the influence won’t continue, creating a lack of permanence, making our need to be remembered seem trivial indeed.