perching like a poet –
I found a table and a bench
tucked away on a second story walkway
of the Arts building
just for me.
a yellow magnesium light
shines down on this paper
turning letters into dancing figures
that say something important to me
so I can pretend I am a poet.
a walk in the dark
took me silent and alone
wandering eccentric between buildings
past fire escapes instead of front doors,
tracing the short cuts college students create
and watching the eucalyptus trees
move in the streetlights that hilight half of their curves,
only the undersides of their leaves.
I smell wet grass and hear the rush of water
in automated sprinkler lines.
I sight along the patterns made
by erroneous pulses of silver
meant for grass or shrub.
they tease soap from the asphault instead.
the lagoon is one big black unmoving body of ink
lthe color of the folds of my cloak;
that’s whipping around my bare legs in the salty wind
from the ocean saying “shush, shush”
to the cry of a single seagull.
it passes near me; I look up,
through misty clouds low enough to
strain through treetops,
at a couple of dim stars
Escher drew for me.
what is left of the world is really not worth living for,
but it is a job, a challenge,
and I like trying to write it all down.
I observe like my predecessors:
civilization working itself into a frenzy
over nothing, there’s no advancement –
just continuing over and over to find new ways
to convince itself that it is working,
that we’re worth it, that we’ll make it.
convincing itself that we’re right.
convincing itself that we’ve done nothing
that we can’t undo
later.
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