Driving alone through the
city and your cure is
the Holy Hour
This supermoon sings
of solitude but
you are not sad
The smoke will seep
through lips and drift
as high as Luna
This special moon
it does not speak
Sing along even if you’re wordless
even if you think others
do not share your burdens
There lies pleasure
This is a song
of not just yourself
but also the moon
And as you drive over
and with Walt Whitman
you sound your barbaric yawp
I hear America sighing, the different moans I hear
Those of teachers, each one sighing as it should be strong
The secretary sighing with redundancy
The programmer sighing, repeating abstractions
The clerk sighs into the screen
The investor sighs only after laughter
The delicious sighing of the rich!
The wealthy and their woeful worries
Sighing with closed eyes
Each sigh belongs to everyone
As each day no longer is itself
But belongs to every other day as well
The executive sighing with sealed shut eyes
Blind to life and serendipity
This work is far from finished.
The last few months were in anticipation
Escaping the inescapable.
Acceptance, the swarm generation is here.
Unfold the sealed pages
of time and find that there was solidarity.
Apply what is left.
The old ideologies are caskets.
Prepare now for space, and sabotage
those corporate plans for domination of the infinite black.
The international pseudo-taoist financial technocracy
is only beginning to bear it’s teeth.
Dig in for the long haul friends.