The moment is coming.
The big bang out in the fig orchard.
Whether compounded in irony,
or compounded in tragedy,
or in other utopia-dystopia dichotomy,
insight in either ‘ll speak from a distance,
and live inside moments
for longer than we may feel them.
To a carousel of progress that isn’t ironic-
who hasn’t before reverted to the empathy cry
in place of any proper, simpler explanation,
and unseasoned themselves quite a bit regardless.
As if this extra effort were all for naught.
Bitch I walk out on the street.
Bitch the street is everywhere.
Bitch I walked away for days.
“Too much meat for ya, huh, Lukesier Payne.”
You’re a little monster but all the same,
so is what both of us envy.
We’re just in this windy city
where people bite regularly.
It’s not an urban outfit.
Nor is it my ghetto pass.
“What a d bag,” somebody says in my room.
My new black friends are more Irish than the Irish.
My new black friends are self hating red haired men.
“Who discovered America?” A red haired man.
I’m just too comfortable in the mutual darkness;
I’m just too comfortable with,
building on with
the same old bridges to nowhere;
as long long as it’s just from time to time,
you and I, we,
can always spin the spools again.
Nostradamus of mindfulness-
look at this nationalism of the self,
look at this idiocentric defender
offending some collective threat;
he’s just pulling on the bleeding udder;
he’s just staring at the skeletons
and wondering about beguiled flesh
tattooed like stars of David.
Nostradamus of mindfulness,
how do I gauge the sum of one moment,
how do I dictate the future in present;
or is it fortified in threadwork,
as velcro, rips loudly in the need of silence-
is this detachable, as a flower’s petals,
undeniable like bees and pollen,
Dalai Lama of swag.
He’s a hand slave to a long-lived udder;
out-milking the moment.
Yes he can.