Too much is going on
Like the stars you can’t see-
They still glimmer
And twinkle,
But the experience is not yours,
It’s theirs,
The kaleidoscope needs no more
turning,
Just plain what’s happenin’ to them
And whatever they feel
Is as real as what you can’t see.
Too much noise
In the way of silences,
Cars trapped by broken lines
Lying fat and not vertical,
Whose horns blow without remorse,
But only a reminder,
Like veins in a rock-
Layer upon layer of history.
Too much time wasted,
Like rebirth of eras past,
Bellbottoms and all,
On luxury and not the harm done,
No paddle to swing at a child
Who has not a reason to be punished
Except eager foolishness.
Too much breadth collecting on windows
And wiped away
By unaccultured, un-American women at
night,
Snickered in the hope
Of minor understanding;
All bread has its measure of taste,
Like wine to a connoisseur or a wino
Whose tongues decipher loss of flavor
And tell you its junk.
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