poems & photos
The hallucinator sees
the contents of their mind
spread out before them,
like dusty old knickknacks
brought up from the basement
and strewn out in the front yard.
Their minds become a
kaleidoscope.
They look at their life
and see themselves
as a miracle.
An accidental poem by this article in The Atlantic.
It is a wonder that my eyes
may see the city from such
varied perches, day to day:
By bus: elevated so that
I may gaze indulgently
into wet, dirt-caked
cavities of construction sites
hidden when I am
By bike: so that the flawed
contours of road, frenzied
traffic patterns spill soft
city breath on my cheeks,
ever still when I am
By foot: so that I may watch,
observe, stop at the apex of the
Walnut Street Bridge and see
(for the first time) clumps of
bright clothing, remnants
of bicycles, water bottles
sticking to the concrete
embankment below.
Urban climbing up
concrete hills, what
season is it anyway?
Four straight days
of light-flooded windows
spark new leaves
on the basil plant.
I said it many times:
I need a bigger sky,
larger moon-stage,
vast and brooding.
On that shallow shore
just north of here: why
are the boats left
floating free all night?
What small city sparkles
to the east? Why can’t
I keep the ocean’s west
location ever straight?
And can I keep this
golden fondness with
me past autumn?
I’m sitting at the glass balcony
and the sky
is filling high tide
with copper
and lilacs.
Small kids wear blue
oversized football helmets
and run in synchronized patterns
in the field below.
Now they hold hands,
sweat caught in eyelashes
(I’m guessing).
They jump and spin
and can’t stand still.
Turned out onto Washington:
the great industrial avenue.
Busy in the morning.
Lumber yards, warehouses
of lighting fixtures
huge slabs of marble.
All the men say good morning.
Workers say good morning.
Commuters are mute.
