Evidence of the Window

Big black flies circle about the kitchen,
evidence of the window left open carelessly.

Long highway of dust, sand and the remnants
of concrete, plays hell on a new motorcycle,
but gives the promise it may end somewhere
more serene - where perhaps the green
outnumbers the dry brown that grips my throat.
Orphans cry themselves to sleep with the
hum of generators from the rich houses
keeping tune, while heroes of a war they
were too young to remember ponder lessons
lost and wonder why they are not loved.

"Where are the bodies buried?" one wonders.
Undoubtedly where the flowers bloom the most.

Middle class members of the first world stare in awe
at Discovery Channel depictions of Africans eating
worms and honey ants while they dream of lobsters
and all-you-can-eat crab dinners - I've never been
into eating roaches, even if they breath in salt water.
Kites sail up overhead, carrying with them the
dreams of children, even when flown by the hands
of men, while unseen currents spin them mercilessly
to their delight all the while bearing witness to
the wounds into which we can't place our fingers.

The most attainable definition of goodness can
be found through the trial of a serial killer.

Nightmares show the movie of the unconscious
turning over the notecards printed meticulously
with neglected problems, which refuse to be
ignored due to a lack of time to think through ones
surroundings when not prompted by a paycheque.
Stars shine overhead in patterns interpreted
through the eyes of long-dead men that neither
spoke our language, nor embraced our world-view,
but nonetheless hold sway over how we see
our nightly companion when the sun sets.


Big black flies circle about the kitchen,
evidence of the window left open carelessly.

-- Steven McKennon
October 26, 2003