 |
photo
by Associated Press ©
|
the
rabies purification( how I grew to love the zombie during Winter )
has
our species gone
to
where pestilence
used
to be
when
we were
considered
kings
instead
of legions
of
empty shells dancing
a
disease vector
analysis
by wind
the
tried and true nature
versus
nurture argument
has
gone completely bad
the
old cities try to keep up
with
cable cars careening
over
old rails, whose cars
are
heads bowed to stimulation
by
electric rain in exchange
for
rust and the pain
of
the shadow cultures
in
progress
we
are frightened by weather
we
stay glued to broadcasts
we
are scared
by
tactical fingers maps
and
when so frightened
we
revert back to pacifist
moments
of childhood
we
had stained ourselves with
we
channel time
tune
it to what it was like
right
after we were scolded
for
something our parents
had
not wanted us doing
we
remember, we remembered
to
jar that feeling tight
for
just the right measure
of
escape
the
problems lie
with
an allergy to books
and
a dependence on pictures
moving
sidewalks and
all
the conveniences
of
modern technology
sowing
itself into boxes
of
cut joes and does
and
in this context
any
enemy to culture
is
much harder to discern
when
all the mirrors
are
effectively clear glass
in
need of a shot gun
so
we descriptively
burn
ourselves
on
these little staked claims
the
stings, with different names
that
make our spirits
sing
for ways
through
a dream
beyond
sleeping
while
awake
we
learn to flow with
each
despotic episode
of
hope, the most safe
and
secret
of
our currencies
we
breathe to breed ourselves
into
a price embodiment
and
thus, we for sale
we
are marketed
for
mass individuality
in
the ways love
used
to be
this
morning
while
letting the dog out
I
had become drawn into the swells
stilled
inside the rushes
of
southerlies this morning
their
sweeping moisture belly-
race
across the state of New York
across
a glacial dug landscape
of
tilled fields scattered
with
bleeding snow
a
broken bottle globe
waiting
to be a shaken hold
of
arctic cold lurking
in
the background
behind
the billow clouds
a
door opens
a
patient blade strike
knows
the Sun is not high
enough
to thwart its incursions
so
we bundle up
each
thought first
squats, cupping fire
we
collect our bearings
while
warming our hands
on
the tasks
of
another day
with
different needs to survive
with
different ideas to revive
with
different ways to deny
one’s
self a soulful part
in
the waning, receding
nature’s
symphony
that
used to bleed
so
much more into us
then
cut us out of the loop
EJR
©
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