(no subject)
Kapuscinski writes about how man
evolves his environment and is molded
by it's roots, claws, terrain and germs-
Brendan and I walk through the rain
beneath the cap of one umbrella.
We are only two of the skinny stems
among the thousands
of multicolored mushroom caps floating
through the city.
I figured it out-
its not just that they were moved. he says
I don't understand, I don't probe-
he says, the bushes- they're not dying
just cause they were moved.
they're dying cause you guys don't have a hose.
I look shamefully at the front plot
of my shabbby house
and with downturned eyes, rosy cheeks
and tail between legs remember my
proudly proclaimed landscaping ambitions.
Cars slide past us,
and bikes zee through the elongated puddles
that run along the curb.
I hate every form of transportation,
every one. he tells me.
Its this life in the city I tell him.
Everything moves too quickly in the city-
if I lived in a small town i'd worry
and fret and tend more to my home
and garden-
it would be more mine
and not whatever circus parade
stumbling drunk twenty year olds
made of it-
Are these excuses?
I am prone to doubting the manipulations of environment-
and believing will can surpass anything.
I must be a real middle class American.
I would care more if I had a small house
in a little town-
and I'd have more time-
I wouldn't be jumping on my bike
to rush off to the next dazzling spectacle.
he wanders over to my perspective.
You know, and it's like it doesn't even matter
if you do have anywhere to go-
wherever you are
you can hear the ringing tambourine
and matter- moves more quickly.
you speed up when all the other cars do
and you all slow down together
when the twinkling red, twinkling blue, and bright white
try to blind and shiver you-
evolves his environment and is molded
by it's roots, claws, terrain and germs-
Brendan and I walk through the rain
beneath the cap of one umbrella.
We are only two of the skinny stems
among the thousands
of multicolored mushroom caps floating
through the city.
I figured it out-
its not just that they were moved. he says
I don't understand, I don't probe-
he says, the bushes- they're not dying
just cause they were moved.
they're dying cause you guys don't have a hose.
I look shamefully at the front plot
of my shabbby house
and with downturned eyes, rosy cheeks
and tail between legs remember my
proudly proclaimed landscaping ambitions.
Cars slide past us,
and bikes zee through the elongated puddles
that run along the curb.
I hate every form of transportation,
every one. he tells me.
Its this life in the city I tell him.
Everything moves too quickly in the city-
if I lived in a small town i'd worry
and fret and tend more to my home
and garden-
it would be more mine
and not whatever circus parade
stumbling drunk twenty year olds
made of it-
Are these excuses?
I am prone to doubting the manipulations of environment-
and believing will can surpass anything.
I must be a real middle class American.
I would care more if I had a small house
in a little town-
and I'd have more time-
I wouldn't be jumping on my bike
to rush off to the next dazzling spectacle.
he wanders over to my perspective.
You know, and it's like it doesn't even matter
if you do have anywhere to go-
wherever you are
you can hear the ringing tambourine
and matter- moves more quickly.
you speed up when all the other cars do
and you all slow down together
when the twinkling red, twinkling blue, and bright white
try to blind and shiver you-