New Eyes for an Old World
We’re dancing on an eggshell. We’re paving, razing, digging, pulling and pushing with everything we’ve got. Underneath us is a soup of magma at a rolling boil. Pressure’s building inside our lovable blue bomb.
On my way to NY, NY or Asphalt Eden as Mr. Kilbey would say, or Concrete Capital as someone else would say. 1000 miles of road. Bad road. Pot-holed n pock-marked. Terrible for tire alignment. Great for mechanics.
Miles of train track scar the landscape, slicing through backyards. Tunnels, bridges, overpasses, thoroughfares. We have the right of way because we have to get there on time. Time is money. Money is happiness. Happiness is our right. So, outta my way.
It’s acid raining outside and I forgot my umbrella. Nothing to protect me from those tiny pellets as they sting my skin. They hit with a hiss and soak into my bloodstream frying capillaries, red and white blood cells, proteins n mitochondria n nuclei. Perhaps a virus or three perish as it floods my cerebellum, eating away my memories one at a time.
I’m born again. The world sounds colorful but looks looks off key. Right angles mixed with wrong ones. Abstract ugliness. Beautiful in its randomness.
On my way to NY, NY or Asphalt Eden as Mr. Kilbey would say, or Concrete Capital as someone else would say. 1000 miles of road. Bad road. Pot-holed n pock-marked. Terrible for tire alignment. Great for mechanics.
Miles of train track scar the landscape, slicing through backyards. Tunnels, bridges, overpasses, thoroughfares. We have the right of way because we have to get there on time. Time is money. Money is happiness. Happiness is our right. So, outta my way.
It’s acid raining outside and I forgot my umbrella. Nothing to protect me from those tiny pellets as they sting my skin. They hit with a hiss and soak into my bloodstream frying capillaries, red and white blood cells, proteins n mitochondria n nuclei. Perhaps a virus or three perish as it floods my cerebellum, eating away my memories one at a time.
I’m born again. The world sounds colorful but looks looks off key. Right angles mixed with wrong ones. Abstract ugliness. Beautiful in its randomness.
posted by Greg Monaco at 9:59 AM
2 Comments:
Sometimes, I wonder what ever happened to MICHAEL MORAKIS. He was in my algerbra class. He was an upper classman and played soccer. He used to sign all of his assignments and tests with a JOHN HANCOCK style signature. I thought that was funny.
My mom's first husband used to say, "When ever someone gives you flowers-they want to have sex with you"!
'So what do you do when a strange man suddenly walks up to you and gives you flowers'?
Just Curious.
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