Everything organic decomposes,
breaks down from differentiation to anonymous
elements—calcium, iron, oxygen. We try to
humanize the fact that this is the most dispassionate of processes,
the dissolution of everything we know as living. We hate the
idea, save dinosaur bones, the shriveled body parts of
saints, tiny bits of compressed carbon, to prove
that some things last forever just as they are,
in their original form. We like to
deny that it will not be the same
for us at the end. Theories abound: reincarnation;
the incorruptibility of souls;
the new residence in paradise. The
irony, of course, of never being able to prove
any of it.
Everything humanmade falls to ruins.
We rush to find meaning in ancient rubbish,
assign age and importance to disturbed graveyards,
forgetting our uncivilized fear of the dead, or undead
in the search for past grandeur.
Look at the gold! The treasures! This must be
a representation of the goddess, queen of the night
fearsome to behold. Or Anubis, who weighs the hearts of the dead,
judging by his doggy standards their
readiness for eternity. In Pompeii
we walk on the stones that Romans walked on,
imagine the ordinary lives of those who
built these walls, baths, palaces.
All human activity takes place
in the shadow of the volcano.
Everything discarded is absorbed.
The pinecones drop and gather in granite hollows.
Can we say that they are there on purpose?
Come up the next summer, and the next—
the cones split and nuts are exposed.
Some become food, some sprout,
some seem inert. The next year
seedlings vie for sunlight, water, earth,
as the summer breeze
scatters every kind of airborne seed
and insects leave frothy eggs in creek bed shade.
Rain falls, and snow. We can not
get there, the road impassible. Or we
are kept away by city business,
tasks that need electricity,
artificial light and the ambition to
be recognized in public places. One or
two of the seedlings gain ascendancy,
become trees, splitting the granite with deep
roots. We admire their strength, when we
finally get back, sit musing under thick
branches, wonder why we can't
live like this all the time.
The nubs of hair growing out of his scalp
almost conceal the Old Aryan font of the tattoo.
I fear for his son, wearing, like his father
baggy camouflage shorts banned by the dress code.
We're here as parents picking up our children.
We nod to each other. They seem dressed each
afternoon as if they're on their way
to a 709th MP Battalion reunion. I imagine,
when the father shaves his head, how the son leans
in close, learning more about razors and lotion,
pain and ink. They get into a black Suburban,
and without fastening seat belts, pull out into traffic,
chrome spinners spinning and spinning.
The City by the Bay is turning me blue with its gray.
High rise buildings blocking views to accomodate newcomers without a clue, and too many shoes.
Corrupt cops can't even run a block or actually come down on violent crack pots.
The busses are like playing roulette, never knowing what number you're going to get for your dollar and
fifty cents.
Hipsters dive around driving up rent, too much money spent on body ink and designer jeans...when did
uglified upcoming yuppies hit the scene?
Shady characters linger under freeways, giving the general homeless a worse reputation.
Credit cards are advertised to be used for fast foods...isn't that how credit gets abused? People already use it
for booze and, yes, more shoes, but there is no good investment in a Whopper, much less two.
Cigarette butts get flung into sewers, while City Hall rolls around in its own manure, behind closed
doors with their designers suitors.
I wonder what it will be like when red lights actually stop bikes, and people care when they see public
fights, despite colors or black and whites...
And when can we peaceful neighbors sleep through the night without wondering if fireworks are gunfights?
These things just aren't right.
A people's city must be given back, instead of being frisked for honest earnings
that trickle out so fast that they tug on our yearnings:
for justice, for reason, and for equality.
Those who pay are those who say,
but they are not those who think and care
Meanwhile the young of us wrestle with the day to day, influx of suckers driving prices up up and away
from normal people, trying to be happy and still make their way
I'm a Native, and it pains me to say that I cannot stay
Five generations built strong foundations for my City feet,
and swiftly the rug under them will sweep me up and out of bounds,
tired of dealing with these money ring clowns squatting in my town and keeping everyone else down
I'm tired of having to rhyme my way along
singing such a sordid song
but I cannot help but generate the truth
that this brave new world is ruthless
and the sick are neglected and becoming toothless, wordless, silent and ill-tempered
foundations and hopes are not remembered or protected
high towers over bridges
are being built on faulty lines
and will see their time
as soon as it shakes them off their mound of dimes
and the avalanche still will only trickle down
to drown
and not to spare
The thickening air
of smog and wrong-way turns
while the city burns on its layers of trash
and plastic fake cash
and the egg will be smashed and adorning the abhorring faces
as they desperately try to make emergency calls
but the lines will be stalled
and 911 only gets you the Highway Patrol
and more automation
in this sinking and frenzied nation
of intellectual constipation
in its search for golden salvation
that cannot feed its own.
