Landscape of Longing
si ge ret, n.
a means by which we defile ourselves,
sicken the elderly and the young, enable
corporations to pacify and make us docile.
I found a postcard on the table, it said
I’m substituting manufactured for real desire.
Who am I to object? Fulfillment is only five dollars away, and
this lucidity is killing me:
thin threads in the twilight have to do.
I'd put on some music, blast on the beats,
but Bebel is already quivering in the background,
and there is no room for other voices.
In the library I saw her bent over the books,
bare arms and legs to break your heart.
She saw me, I know. I recognize that secret smile.
The bus ride is bumpy and bright, so much green and light.
Inside my bag the disks clatter against each other.
Eat Drink, Man Woman. Unknown Pleasures. Persona.
The men are ready to move, the women to speak
in words I pretend to understand-
I used to be able to dance in Parliament whorls,
twist and twirl in the blue curlicues I made in my lungs.
Now the light from a plane glides obliquely in the dark,
and I don't imagine the civil travelers buckled in their plush seats.
On the stoop I set the tar tip aflame. I burn with the flecks,
an easy target to pick off.
a means by which we defile ourselves,
sicken the elderly and the young, enable
corporations to pacify and make us docile.
I found a postcard on the table, it said
I’m substituting manufactured for real desire.
Who am I to object? Fulfillment is only five dollars away, and
this lucidity is killing me:
thin threads in the twilight have to do.
I'd put on some music, blast on the beats,
but Bebel is already quivering in the background,
and there is no room for other voices.
In the library I saw her bent over the books,
bare arms and legs to break your heart.
She saw me, I know. I recognize that secret smile.
The bus ride is bumpy and bright, so much green and light.
Inside my bag the disks clatter against each other.
Eat Drink, Man Woman. Unknown Pleasures. Persona.
The men are ready to move, the women to speak
in words I pretend to understand-
I used to be able to dance in Parliament whorls,
twist and twirl in the blue curlicues I made in my lungs.
Now the light from a plane glides obliquely in the dark,
and I don't imagine the civil travelers buckled in their plush seats.
On the stoop I set the tar tip aflame. I burn with the flecks,
an easy target to pick off.