I find myself weary of this machine.
Yearning for the age of technology to end.
To go back to bare feet and humble hearts.
To a point where our self-righteousness,
sense of entitlement,
bank of bondages
would fade into the past
in a matter of minutes
and with one flash of light
we would look at these contraptions and think:
How silly we were.
Just how lame was our ambition.
How quickly we killed off our own humanity
through the most uncreative of tools.
| tap, tick, click, click |
We are carved from the
same sad stone, only mine is
more wood than stone.
strange we are. I stalked the
night streets to forget.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
where knowledge is free;
where the world has not been broken up into
fragments by narrow doemstic walls;
where words come out from depth of truth;
where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
where the clear stream of reason has not lost its
way into the driery desert sand of dead habit
Filtered black flies come into focus at rest on the wind burned glass
Legs peel from the seat like a dry tongue from the roof of mouth
I breath fumes watch the morning bloom over steaming lids
The sky blushes salmon in the distance repetition of sound
Doppler in the grass blades rode edges burned to ash blown back up into blueness
As the engine turns linears of big rigs reel start running one hollow hum
I rode shotgun
No one spoke for miles
Passed fields of pale blown wheat
Telephone pole crosses
I can’t forget
The daydream of death
My still reflection
Dark sky eyes
Over the quick blue
And stratus clouds
Upon my window
Inside the wind
A thing called drugs. Pay
No attention to the hand
behind the moon, full.