the aftermath

when the dust clears, will i see you at one end?
will i see you when the smoke is a curling silent scream in the sky?
will we fix breakfast of picked dandelions and robins? eggs?
will we finally have the time and space to sit next to the ruins of this modern world and billow smoke signals of homemade paper cigarettes into the ultramarine sky?
when i can stop buying my time off, goddammit, organizing my life away
when you are not living on old time, worn memories ...


the birds have come back to haunt me with their song ... the daylight sneaks in before i realize and i am left opening eyes to sweet serenity ... disillusionment a quiet shadow in the corner for now ...

i have come to a few minor art conclusions in contrast to larger schemes, but it has given me peace for once:

art is this morning bird singing ... it does not have an answer, it does not have a solution or point a single direction ... it careens over the invisible space barriers, only appreciated when one slows down to listen, to experience the beauty potential in human perception ... this should never be undermined or we are doomed to insecthood ... collecting food for the masses to continue on their mechanic paths, slick, perfectly worn roads ... everyone knows where they are going and every one knows where they will end ...