Bored with a self of detachment,
Weighed in the body and the bodies of the world, its stones and animals.
Same types over and over again for a little spare change at the subway entrance.
People all wrapped up.

Caught up or cut down,
Bored, tired, what more do we want with me and
What of the great me that is all.
Woodie Guthrie’s one big soul.
Does it need us so badly,
Putting the generations through the struggle of becoming,
Raising our vain hopes and certain demise
As the back dark drop for a bright stage.

The push and pull of armies on the map.
Actual people, soldiers in the mud or else
On a break in the cafeteria with trays of food, music, phones.
Some other.
Some One
Some more,
Some left, left out, superfluous
Even as they come to the stage,
Useless as these words to ring your ears.
All bells are for death and warning or is it Christmas on TV.
Voter valor, ringing the mood of the public’s opinion on such things.

Ambitious little meter,
Sensitive to light and Dark.
Equivocal answer of the soul,
The self of what it means to be a body and mind for now.
For all and for later
We forgot the passage of our arrival,
The efficiency of means honed a thousand times over, fathoms deep,
Seemingly wasted as the silt settling in the seas,
But see how it rises a mountain range
As the sea shells found in the rocks of the “death zone” high on Mt. Everest.
A tourist trap,
The old fish of the warm bay,
The sun umbrellas and big expensive drinks.
Oxygen, fire, atoms, empty worlds and their moons,
How special we are, empty as the sand,
The conscious wash of beach tide and glint of snow crystals,
Light to the eye as a prism of ice,
Reflecting glass to see on and on.

The numen within or beyond phenomena,
The plural of all singularity,
The spread of dishes on the Holiday table after the meal,
Drinks half gone, crumbs and rich drips on the plate,
The fullness, the weight of conversations that could have been left unsaid,
The silence always says more she said.