Sunday, March 14, 2010

Consequences of Pavement

If I could comprehend the complexities of the intangible
I would have peers like Flintstone vitamins
and one proud exhale after another.
I have to drink evil to forget my heart,
but in moments of expected reciprocity
I find myself an insert-
like the occupant of a seat for just one flight.
If only the sky was blue above beautiful things
and cold and dark above the despicable.
Utilitarians and Kantians could call a truce
and Heathens would bundle above the smoking gutters
uninterrupted by tilting heads
who'd warm in blue sweaters and sip tea indoors.

there are a billion hells on the wet pavement,
hot and raining from the multitude of lazy seething eyes
stuck on something sad and perfect above them.
How much does the righteous laugh at the errors,
from their cloud carriages and billowy robes?
When the crowds in funny hats stumble into glass
and lose bits of intangible wholeness with each tripping blow.

There's so much swaying taking place
in the speed of that popular road.
I forget which way is east or west,
and the digression of that knowledge is ironically
so healthy.
Irony is a devious shadow,
I imagine it behind me in a hood
making obscene silent gestures
noticed only when moments
are rewound in my head.
Like, oh there, smirking,
holding red flares,
lighting the path behind me on fire,
but I become distracted by the speed of my feet forward
and the placement of puddles
and how great it is to splash mud on my calves.

I close my eyes and know the shade of gray on that sharp corner
and the dark barren trees lining the walk,
the branches like legs of acrobats mid flip.
I liked to believe there was no other image to mentally reside,
but the monsoons and the puke in the car
and the low gray blankets
and the blurry wind shields
from the unnatural steel placed by the water
would have killed me, I'm sure.

Irony is a Machiavellian
parading though Malta, poisoning all in a rampage
while the crowd watches noting the moments
they could have all been spared.
hiding behind the street lamps and allies,
industry rewound shows him burning ominously
while the steel hands spread higher and wider
like the accumulation of ash by Vesuvius.

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