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Poetry
"Language is a virus.
We must find out what words are and how they function.
They become images when written down, but images of words repeated in the mind and not of the image
of the thing itself."
The sun is out,
Though I can only guess.
I see her light reflect
Off the leaves, the hours and the surrounding chrome.
This must be how the masses see God.
But I have seen the sun before, never have I seen God.
I eat slow
And the traffic rushes by,
A man made river of hurry.
A never-ending whirlpool.
The trees stand peacefully,
Their leaves quiver,
In a desolate September breeze.
Oh Walt and Ginsberg, how was your
New York.
Did you spend Monday afternoons,
Lackadaisically eating curried vegetables,
Sipping wine, watching humanity
Race outside the window
Never stopping to breath, to say hello, to love.
Your New York must have been the same.
Driving Vachel to the road,
Then to his death,
You to your mind
And me into mine,
Until we are all in the same place.
Full and lazy,
A dream bursting at the seems.
The sun is still out with the trees,
My teachers all of them as we race towards the sea.
