All the Dead Spaces
The rain always comes when someone passes,
swirling through the dark cedars, raking leaves
away, zephyr harbinger, banshee plucked
from the stars.
Rain cold, wet, lifeless gray, casket perched
above that hole in space, no honor
for the corpse, no timť, kudos, empty thoughts
for perished Greeks.
She was a whore, elements of her trade
forged in a starís dying nucleus.
Filling this lonely hole the way that
she took on men to fill her desolate thoughts.
She was family. Kin of trees, clouds, moon,
motherís daughter, brotherís sister, sins
remitted by holiday table.
She was a girl, brown legs kissed by summerís
spell, smile the smell of sunflowers crinkled
at the edge of a field.
She was an egg pierced in loveís dark realm
by hunting sperm the way a star throws
off magnetic arms.
She was nothing.
Dust to dustóirony in that return since her life
sprang from the gaseous dust of a dying
star, supernova as ultimate ejaculate into
the dark womb of space to gestate for
12 million years or more before the planet
seeds took shape and ringed the sun like
a bellyís navel.
Came eventually the human race,
ugly bags of mostly water, people
wet inside everywhere like a Vancouver
Reduced now to component
elements tossed out by the dying
star: 4-6 pounds of iron, gold, calcium,
potassium, carbon and a few other trace
Stars to stars, gases to gases,
gazing in at the hole to be filled,
I know why we gaze at the heavens.
We are looking for ourselves.
POETRYREPAIRS #217 v15,09.098
Lesson of the Greast Depression
The machines stand patiently
ready to act on human command.
Workers expectantly arise
to resume their duties.
Tools, systems, routes, logistics
lined up for service.
Plants to sow and reap; structures
to build, maintain, repair, replace;
commodities to be united with
their markets; music to be played;
enchanting murals to paint;
shows that must go on; coffee
to be made; errands to run;
endless activities and professions
imposing order on entropy.
Teach the curious,
heal the sick or broken,
enforce the law,
tend to the poor.
Societyís capillaries clogged by
a powerful voodoo. All is
needing to be done, but stopped
dead or cancerously
receding from living
for want of the magic beans,
the mysterious force of money,
a social construct gone mad,
constricting the flow of life.
POETRYREPAIRS #217 v15,09.098
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