My angry jam
Rushes headlong
Into traffic
Feral
Meaningful
Erupted
And leaving no one
Untouched
For I am loud
Tag: traffic
Precious and Threadbare (day 2906)
Precious is the value of things
Laying down in silk
Folding each crease between your fingers
As the light summer wind blows lazily
On the floral window blinds.
An old tuned radio floats in,
Blending with traffic
That beeps and yells and screeches
Intermittently, unsymetrically
And my smile reaches across
The ancient carpeted room,
Parts threadbare,
Parts so coiled around this scene
That our precious breath
Falls together in romance.
Trip to the Park (day 1537)
My windows slidescape at a furious pace
As little sentinels wave from overlooked nooks.
I’m a road warrior when the times get hard
But this is summer now, and these long backs
And bikini tracks are keeping me easy
With two shades of cool running down the side of
A sweating growler called picnic in the park.
I’m laying naked in her presence,
She’s entangling my mind as her long legs
Reach straight up at mine.
We biked here because our history depends on it,
So tempered with that, we find it irresistible
To not heed the folly in pushing sweet Gaia away,
Which, to those of us who mind the traffic,
Becomes about as obsolete as this empty bottle of summer.
A Chance to Be Faculty and Chief (day 1119)
A valley, like my mind, may look empty on the inside – void of all that makes up matter. Void of all the mass that builds houses and factories and city roads and flower gardens and traffic jams.
For cannot this still matter? I am lost in a wasted land, and the fight challenges my patience along grated edges of wisdom.
Do you hear the sharp bells ringing? Is this the difference that is ringing, or has freedom finally called my name?
The sheath shall sadly fall apart, ragged from too much use like a cocktail napkin at a lipstick party. History shall not scream loudly here. This is not the bitter pages of a non-fiction picture book.
Here we have wrinkled tin garbage cans rolling lifelessly along unkempt lawns of former princes’, former glory holes that believed in a dream. A lifeless dream built on waste management systems and recycling plans.
So I cannot spoil my food anymore. My valley – running deep – is the chance to be faculty and chief. My valley is the early morning breath and the dying chances. My valley is the shortened season and the wilderness.
My valley is me, and I’ve begun to see.