Monday, January 16, 2012

A Man is a Home

See also poems 2012-5772 and sulam yaakov

Above the village of Koke
sits Moimango
watching over his people
sometimes his son
now also old
comes to pay his respects
in Moimango's abdominal cavity
rodents have made their nests
on his toes and fingers
lichen goes
his head nods forward
around his people
the jungle grows



The rain forest
picabeen palms and giant ferns
perfumery of
eucalyptus woodland
and rolling coastal heaths
shimmering with wildflowers
that make soft the hardest gaze
are all the children
of mycorrhizal fungi
that send their slender threads
into the golden sand
and gently pry
from silicate fists
the building blocks of life
bubbles of regret
like soggy spears
well up, wrench me
if only I had made something of myself
if only some one had told me at 30 or 35 that money counts
more than almost anything
and that as you age no one cares about anything much
except that you pay them for services rendered

Stuck in the cellar
of late capitalist consumerism
and internal contradictions
and running in circles
to be able to look my children and wife in the eye
sometimes the best I can do
is stuff electronic notes into virtual bottles
and set them adrift
on the faceless book

No comments: