Man's Machines

Might as well go to market.

Gather money, kindling. The economy

scary, debt deep, winter coming. Reminds

me of my youth, cold poor and scared

but living truth? S**t. Never

have I understood life's meaning,

significance. Not to say there is no purpose

necessarily, just I don't immediately get it.

Other hand, if you don't think too deeply

about death, this being but a dream, sleep

of a god snoring with apnea or whose alarm

goes off, wakes up for work, spring and expecting

spring's good as it gets. Rhodora in winter

completely forgets what its blossoms looked

like, how attractive to bees and flies!

It's probably healthy that everything dies.

The dire economy can bring us together

or lead us to war. It's cold then warm. Your lover

doesn't write letters anymore giving

thanks or encouragement.

Friends never really know each other,

nemesis. Just as it is impossible to say

what you mean, your closest lover's near but

external, forever. You're alone.

More than ever men have one mind

and finding it's as easy as flicking on the

tv, huckleberry, but that always was

the problem. We march to war in rows and back

in columns. Learning who you actually are

is difficult as sitting still

ten minutes without a thought or want.

Nothing to say. Nothing to do.

Interior solitude, imperative belonging.

Repetitive dreaming. Until you draw

a circle with a dot

at the center. Stop. Full stop.

On a dry rocky ridge, hot

or in a frozen swamp. One heron

and yourself. It is possible to hear

not far, a car, a train, a plane.