City folk

Someone said,
the full moon looks larger in the city
because of skyscrapers-
which said nothing
about people feeling smaller,
more condensed when clustered.

Tall shadows do distort our perception of time,
such as dusk does bend warm light
in the redwood grove.

Somehow,
the moon still washes over and spills into all
narrow alleys and dives deep into dark
watering holes
with its aloof blue glow,
at some points
her own dead valleys visible
from under the canopy of cemented jungles
patching the land up.
The beacon looms over
with tiny towers babbling in slang.

Concrete was not so.

We stand closest together is
where we feel the smallest.

Somehow it seems

we will never be safe from these lights. 




Painting by August Splitgerber (1844–1918) (http://www.neumeister.com/) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Another recall

Re-collect

a day we had no need

for recall-

Forget that these conveniences can

kill us and attempt execution

indiscriminately making

man’s digital gift

a.k.a., Making lazy

better than ever before.

Back in the old days,

We got what we deserved.

No more or less.

I forget how that worked-

And now we just keep making more justice

and mistakes and give away reason charitably

re-member these feel good moments?

We knew this time, anyways,

Make America Great (Again)

Will kill the dreams

we forget when we wake.

We forgot how to sail. How to re-

Member…

I am too tired to recall

All the ropes and knots.

Image credit based on Detroit, Catalogue J (1901). "418" on negative. Detroit Publishing Co. no. 013177. Gift; State Historical Society of Colorado; 1949City Hall, Milwaukee, Wis.

A city called Home

If I were blind the first question would be
Where,
then Am I?
If I were to listen I could not tell our places
apart
Your city sounds no different than my home.

When I close my eyes
                to turn up the volume,
when I strain to listen in
               the sounds become deafening.

I can hear your train
               passing through.
I can hear the rushing waters,
through my fountain
                or your pipes.
I can hear conversations
                not for me,
laughter, underlapping rise and
fall
of voice-
a plane passes also
                not for me.

I can smell the cafes, the local fare,
I can smell the clothes and bodies,
I can smell the trash and perfume spent
for no good reason.

The pots and pans,
footsteps, traffic, coming and goings
of whims from my window
it tastes exhilarating.

Smiles, and dings, rings,
jewels, tones, excuse me's
and gotta go's
seem exhausting.

Everything
I could ever need,
under one roof,
safely knowing each footstep
                      to the door, down the hall
                      to get the mail
                      to get back inside
                      (where I hide)
called my place,
or your City
Where
        I am right at home
taking in
the blind view.