The Inner City (poesie)
I’m in the main public library, supposed to be filled with wisdom
As like the great Library of Alexandria, and ideas of thousands of years
All I find is remnants of trivia, scattered on half-empty shelves
Discarded receipts for goods purchased and services rendered
The silence is deafening, record of exchange in human currency
Here I am beside myself, lost inside myself, in the stacks,
unable to find my way back. Built for posterity, the structure holds
People don’t read anymore, they listen to audio books.
Nothing but anxiety waiting out yet another repair and postlude
To preserve what is left of our lost world.
Walking around with my nose to the ground, few people about
Trying to not look where I’m going. Lineups at bus stops
Endless pockets of ethnic shops, await demolition
Surrounded by tall grey concrete structures reach to the sky
I’m in the university district near the library, city hall,
All the streets feel like back alleys, obscured by shadow
Doors to nowhere, umbrella bags to keep your dripping wet
Umbrellas dry. You can’t afford this new way of life.
People with junk-laden shopping carts, jaywalk across
Empty parking lots, construction workers in safety vests
Oblivious to all of this. Space blankets hang like
Christmas decorations in the remnants of trees.
Bright colored labels of city police, check their baggage
Homeless snails crawl with a blankets around their shoulders
Or sit passed out in empty doorways. Homeless, go home!
I’ve come to the inner city in need of respite, in need of repair,
Yet another repair on this old vehicle, here in the middle of nowhere,
Where they chose to erect a digital prison for new immigrants,
Is trying on my person, challenging my perspective
To belong to a collective. When I tackle domestic tasks,
I set all lofty thoughts aside, to focus on the task at hand,
Distracting me from all things heavenly.
Making it through the chaos of empty streets
Populated with box houses, great and concrete.
Christ Saves - Church Street
Where am I? The sun is obscured by cloud, so I can’t find my way south.
There are Church Street, and row of missions catering to lost souls,
I mean what’s the purpose of trying to change them,
They are who they are. Wandering poor, waiting out the clock
Until their time is up. But time does not stop, in this timeless spot
Entropy and poorly planned menagerie with no escape route.
Wandering along cement corridors, trying to avoid cars
Aimlessly wandering the streets about. The signs say, “Closed”
Reward for Homeless Development - $1 Million Dollars
Once you are here, you are stuck. Some never escape
The insanity of never ending philanthropy. In Christ Mission,
We are on a mission from God, whatever god that was..
Nothing seems human, In this dark fantasy of shadows and walls
One could spend hours, days, years trying to find oneself here.
Journey down endless rabbit holes, down vacant aisles
Far from the madding crowds of mass formation psychosis
Some never open, some never close, each in its own little world.
We underestimated the underbelly, what were we thinking
By building cities, Wandering pilgrims in states of confusion
Unable to tell time from illusion, unsure of which way to go
Checking cellphones, looking for the next coffee shop
Farther on down the road, I enter a mall, land of the walking dead.
Why are the cooks all Chinese, middle eastern, the security guards
Are all info-asian, custodial staff, none are caucasian.
Persecuted and sent to Canada, this Babylon, where nobody
Speaks Salish tongues. I appear to have walked in
To a conundrum. People still sporting masks and
Safe distancing, to help them remain anonymous…
Stuck in this zombie apocalypse. Depressed, lost,
And dysfunctional, we are the bottom feeders
So I wander on. Walk on, Walt Whitman, walk on!
Suddenly, a new change of scene, we are in the
University district, youth of all races color and creeds
A lighted oasis with a tall Christmas tree.
What is this message of Christmas for me?
Tucked away in one corner of this brutalist architecture
A small but mighty, respite. Slowly a new chapter opens
Instead of the dark horror story, I’m in a sugar plum fantasy. ~psp
Surrey Homelessness and Housing Society Issuing $1M Call For Housing Project Proposals via
Where's Whalley? Awaiting redevelopment...
Turning Business into freeways, is multi-cultural
Past Recalls
Surrey Central, Whalley District many decades ago...
dr. π (pi)
.
As like the great Library of Alexandria, and ideas of thousands of years
All I find is remnants of trivia, scattered on half-empty shelves
Discarded receipts for goods purchased and services rendered
The silence is deafening, record of exchange in human currency
Here I am beside myself, lost inside myself, in the stacks,
unable to find my way back. Built for posterity, the structure holds
People don’t read anymore, they listen to audio books.
Nothing but anxiety waiting out yet another repair and postlude
To preserve what is left of our lost world.
Walking around with my nose to the ground, few people about
Trying to not look where I’m going. Lineups at bus stops
Endless pockets of ethnic shops, await demolition
Surrounded by tall grey concrete structures reach to the sky
I’m in the university district near the library, city hall,
All the streets feel like back alleys, obscured by shadow
Doors to nowhere, umbrella bags to keep your dripping wet
Umbrellas dry. You can’t afford this new way of life.
People with junk-laden shopping carts, jaywalk across
Empty parking lots, construction workers in safety vests
Oblivious to all of this. Space blankets hang like
Christmas decorations in the remnants of trees.
Bright colored labels of city police, check their baggage
Homeless snails crawl with a blankets around their shoulders
Or sit passed out in empty doorways. Homeless, go home!
I’ve come to the inner city in need of respite, in need of repair,
Yet another repair on this old vehicle, here in the middle of nowhere,
Where they chose to erect a digital prison for new immigrants,
Is trying on my person, challenging my perspective
To belong to a collective. When I tackle domestic tasks,
I set all lofty thoughts aside, to focus on the task at hand,
Distracting me from all things heavenly.
Making it through the chaos of empty streets
Populated with box houses, great and concrete.
Christ Saves - Church Street
Where am I? The sun is obscured by cloud, so I can’t find my way south.
There are Church Street, and row of missions catering to lost souls,
I mean what’s the purpose of trying to change them,
They are who they are. Wandering poor, waiting out the clock
Until their time is up. But time does not stop, in this timeless spot
Entropy and poorly planned menagerie with no escape route.
Wandering along cement corridors, trying to avoid cars
Aimlessly wandering the streets about. The signs say, “Closed”
Reward for Homeless Development - $1 Million Dollars
Once you are here, you are stuck. Some never escape
The insanity of never ending philanthropy. In Christ Mission,
We are on a mission from God, whatever god that was..
Nothing seems human, In this dark fantasy of shadows and walls
One could spend hours, days, years trying to find oneself here.
Journey down endless rabbit holes, down vacant aisles
Far from the madding crowds of mass formation psychosis
Some never open, some never close, each in its own little world.
We underestimated the underbelly, what were we thinking
By building cities, Wandering pilgrims in states of confusion
Unable to tell time from illusion, unsure of which way to go
Checking cellphones, looking for the next coffee shop
Farther on down the road, I enter a mall, land of the walking dead.
Why are the cooks all Chinese, middle eastern, the security guards
Are all info-asian, custodial staff, none are caucasian.
Persecuted and sent to Canada, this Babylon, where nobody
Speaks Salish tongues. I appear to have walked in
To a conundrum. People still sporting masks and
Safe distancing, to help them remain anonymous…
Stuck in this zombie apocalypse. Depressed, lost,
And dysfunctional, we are the bottom feeders
So I wander on. Walk on, Walt Whitman, walk on!
Suddenly, a new change of scene, we are in the
University district, youth of all races color and creeds
A lighted oasis with a tall Christmas tree.
What is this message of Christmas for me?
Tucked away in one corner of this brutalist architecture
A small but mighty, respite. Slowly a new chapter opens
Instead of the dark horror story, I’m in a sugar plum fantasy. ~psp
Surrey Homelessness and Housing Society Issuing $1M Call For Housing Project Proposals via
Where's Whalley? Awaiting redevelopment...
Turning Business into freeways, is multi-cultural
Past Recalls
Surrey Central, Whalley District many decades ago...
dr. π (pi)
.