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| ((Photo from marosstefanovic.deviantart.com.)) |
days speak for time, sleep
for hours, endless humming of
minds on crack, bodies shifting
constantly drifting -- we knew best
as children. Our fantasies were real,
turned nightmares as we wandered
into euphoria, the joy of growing
older, growing taller: But it's not the same.
Sex isn't pretty, feels good a moment,
but doesn't justify knowing
the body's limits, feeling wonder,
exhilaration: things will fall apart.
The pleasure doesn't add up, drives
us crazy, left alone in America. We
thought dreams were the conception
of the body, the reflection feeding
happiness to the machine, but
in return we got a dead Earth.
Three hundred sixty-four
days leaves room for pain
and a reminder of bodies we lost
in fighting, screaming, touching,
the same pathetic pathways to beginning
life, looking for an ending in
poetry, hunger, war, poverty, thirst,
and boredom. They're all the same,
all accomplices in dying, all the worth
of ending young and beginning old.
There's no value in living seventy when twenty
recognizes the fault in our time.
The lights won't shine any brighter, won't
"get better" as we go. No streets of
gold for golden steppers, princes lose
their crowns in time. And all men left
collect in their vat of spoiled memories,
remember the pull of time, its hatred
of a race struggle. We know
too much, but never enough.
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