I'm not so used to cities at night anymore.
The vast silence of steel and false night lights
gleaming in the darkness –
some apocalyptic dystopia
some photographic negative
of minutes spent scurrying
in the name of family, of god, of country
and credit rating.
Not so used to tall shadows created by dead things
that themselves are shadows – monolithic memento moris
leftover from forgotten dreams of some
Victorian Age notion of progress built
out of 20th Century materials
to become the icons of the new millennium.
Not so used to feeling crowded in on a deserted street,
These shadows, they have eyes
and they are always watching
and they are always waiting.
I don't know what it is they are waiting for
or why they insist on watching –
maybe they are waiting for my death,
watching for that opportune moment to pick my bones clean
like road kill on Old Route 66.
There are no questions here.
No one asks where it is I am going or
where it is I have come from.
My presence goes unnoticed.
There are no familiar faces in this city
upon which I might call on this chilly night
beg a couch and a few swallows of wine,
some warmth and conversation, trading tales
and the sweet lies that make of a man's daily life.
There are no doors open to me here.
Only a 24 hour chain donut shop –
and even then,
I must be careful not to offend
the impatient Middle Eastern man
who works the counter
blaring gangster rap.
Crossing the Madison Street bridge at midnight,
light reflecting in ripples on the waves
passing bus rumbles and shakes the bridge
creating ripples in the Earth
that cannot be erased
unto the last generation.
Street construction does not slow the steady rot underneath everything
man's hands have made.
I am not used to it. I find myself begging
for stars and for the breathing shadows
of more natural landscapes.
Nearing my 40th year I have begun to see
what it is I need. And it's not
any of the things I have been told.
Punch drunk clarity comes at almost two in the morning
sitting in a donut shop
as the city sinks into it's own arms
like a last call drunk.
Walk the streets, pedestrians disappearing into other shadows,
into older shadows. My own shadow, fractured as if
through a dark kaleidescope, four or five times –
A Schrödinger's puzzle.
I consider the possibility that they're following mw
intending to do me harm.
But I choose to dismiss this as paranoid delusion:
my shadows could never harm me
since it would hurt them in the long run.
I stop short of reminding myself that people do that very thing
all the time.
When I was young, I ran away to the city.
I craved the vibration, the cement, the anonymity.
Now I want to breathe big
and fill my eyes wide with green spaces,
acres of sky ascending and dissipating into nothing
into energy, into the cosmos, into stars, and into the ripple of planets
in Einstein's giant gravity blanket.
Now I want to walk in large strides
and I want to talk in large strides
and I want to traverse it all,
even the most inaccessible places.
Now I crave a western expanse.
Now I crave the Appalachian hills.
Now I crave rolling prairie
and nights re-splendid with a thousand million stars.
Now I crave a world in which
a man might breathe and live and love
and find solace in things that grow,
peace in warm fire,
among the songs and company of friends.
My soul speaks, sings out to this place.
It is waiting for the song to return.
I want to believe in all that is grand.
I want to believe in all that is beauty.
There is energy and beauty, where there are people scratching,
bumping into one another on the street, rubbing against the sidewalk,
opening and closing doors – in the same way atoms bounce,
and in the same way that neutrons bounce and bump.
There is a pulse where people are singing.
There is a pulse where a woman takes down her hair.
My soul speaks, sings out to the this place
because there is a rhythm under the cacophony
and some folks call it human.
My soul speaks, sings out to this place.
It is still waiting for an answer.
I want to believe in beauty
in spite of what my culture tells me –
and I am finally beginning to understand
that all that's beautiful
and all that's ugly
begins in me
like it begins in you.
The vast silence of steel and false night lights
gleaming in the darkness –
some apocalyptic dystopia
some photographic negative
of minutes spent scurrying
in the name of family, of god, of country
and credit rating.
Not so used to tall shadows created by dead things
that themselves are shadows – monolithic memento moris
leftover from forgotten dreams of some
Victorian Age notion of progress built
out of 20th Century materials
to become the icons of the new millennium.
Not so used to feeling crowded in on a deserted street,
These shadows, they have eyes
and they are always watching
and they are always waiting.
I don't know what it is they are waiting for
or why they insist on watching –
maybe they are waiting for my death,
watching for that opportune moment to pick my bones clean
like road kill on Old Route 66.
There are no questions here.
No one asks where it is I am going or
where it is I have come from.
My presence goes unnoticed.
There are no familiar faces in this city
upon which I might call on this chilly night
beg a couch and a few swallows of wine,
some warmth and conversation, trading tales
and the sweet lies that make of a man's daily life.
There are no doors open to me here.
Only a 24 hour chain donut shop –
and even then,
I must be careful not to offend
the impatient Middle Eastern man
who works the counter
blaring gangster rap.
Crossing the Madison Street bridge at midnight,
light reflecting in ripples on the waves
passing bus rumbles and shakes the bridge
creating ripples in the Earth
that cannot be erased
unto the last generation.
Street construction does not slow the steady rot underneath everything
man's hands have made.
I am not used to it. I find myself begging
for stars and for the breathing shadows
of more natural landscapes.
Nearing my 40th year I have begun to see
what it is I need. And it's not
any of the things I have been told.
Punch drunk clarity comes at almost two in the morning
sitting in a donut shop
as the city sinks into it's own arms
like a last call drunk.
Walk the streets, pedestrians disappearing into other shadows,
into older shadows. My own shadow, fractured as if
through a dark kaleidescope, four or five times –
A Schrödinger's puzzle.
I consider the possibility that they're following mw
intending to do me harm.
But I choose to dismiss this as paranoid delusion:
my shadows could never harm me
since it would hurt them in the long run.
I stop short of reminding myself that people do that very thing
all the time.
When I was young, I ran away to the city.
I craved the vibration, the cement, the anonymity.
Now I want to breathe big
and fill my eyes wide with green spaces,
acres of sky ascending and dissipating into nothing
into energy, into the cosmos, into stars, and into the ripple of planets
in Einstein's giant gravity blanket.
Now I want to walk in large strides
and I want to talk in large strides
and I want to traverse it all,
even the most inaccessible places.
Now I crave a western expanse.
Now I crave the Appalachian hills.
Now I crave rolling prairie
and nights re-splendid with a thousand million stars.
Now I crave a world in which
a man might breathe and live and love
and find solace in things that grow,
peace in warm fire,
among the songs and company of friends.
My soul speaks, sings out to this place.
It is waiting for the song to return.
I want to believe in all that is grand.
I want to believe in all that is beauty.
There is energy and beauty, where there are people scratching,
bumping into one another on the street, rubbing against the sidewalk,
opening and closing doors – in the same way atoms bounce,
and in the same way that neutrons bounce and bump.
There is a pulse where people are singing.
There is a pulse where a woman takes down her hair.
My soul speaks, sings out to the this place
because there is a rhythm under the cacophony
and some folks call it human.
My soul speaks, sings out to this place.
It is still waiting for an answer.
I want to believe in beauty
in spite of what my culture tells me –
and I am finally beginning to understand
that all that's beautiful
and all that's ugly
begins in me
like it begins in you.