Blue City ⁑ Library - Poetry, Between One And Zero Is All Of Us And More

Oil And Water

The air-chilled sand smooth by sight, course with touch
On the soles of the feet following the ever-dancing coastline—
It slows the waves, it slows the feet; it slows so it can show what lies—
On speckled shores, what small things lies within an ecosystem reliant on giants.

The minds of many dump pretty-slick oil and grime into glassy waves once revered by time.
And somewhere else, a man pours grease down the drain so his landlord has to pay.
Pay for the crime of turning away people who need a place to stay, saying
“Buy the manger at half price, if you pay, pay, pay your own way to stay for what? One or three days? Make it five! No, eight! I’ll throw in the pigsty just pay on the dotted line!”

And the window shops, the Big Names, the minds of many, they sing in chorus— in heavenly choir, that the price of concrete shoes is equal to four installments of $29.99—
And it’s worth it, cause you want to save the environment, do you?

What else is there to do, when calculating the cost of living costs money? Costs time? Costs the plants because our dimes all line the stomachs of the people who would rather sell concrete shoes than stop and think about what they make and consume.

What is free will, without choice? Because I cannot sit and watch the tides on the coastline.

Eudaimonia

How many times? Examined thoughts, prerecorded actions
become wild crows to be surgically and methodically stripped to bone—
Held down by pins and needles lest they dance and grow into their own?

The stage is in every step you take, yet how does one imitate living if they’ve only performed living on a stage?
Oh, would you rather be the Bog King, built from crows, calling to the wild life to take you back to before you were grown.
Like a centerpiece tree in a dated mall, you grow not because of the soil, but from nothing at all.
Cut to size, as it’s clear you’ll be blamed for growing your own way into the sun.
Before they strike, the only thing heard is that the damage was done, all eyes on you, a performance again, what’s new?

I don’t think I can read enough books, or attend enough meetings to stop the blinding spotlight, or the blaring crowd.
The curtain will not close, nor can I take a final bow, not now, or even if the plot allows.
Each intermission juggling crows, pinning wings, stripping feathers from skin until I can perform with it.
Mottled bone bottled and sold, trinkets from the crows no one wants, but must be sold.

How many times? Time again, until at last, I can learn to live with this.

The Hairdresser

“What’ll it be?”
This time, as always ,which answers do you seek?
Sit down, get comfy, you’ve got an hour with me.
When you rise, who do you want to see?
And what do you feel about trying a new technique?

Cut, trim, bleach, dye, stay a while; I, simply hear to bring out what’s inside.
Yes, tell me all the turmoil that frazzles your hair,
And sends smoke signals out the top of your skull.
Who, if I should ever see in this chair, should I nick, cut, scratch, as I am doing their hair?
And you can laugh, and let me know to do my worst, but of course murder is never in my books.

And when I am through and you look no different, yet somehow new;
I’ll know it is not just hair I do.