Sunday, August 7, 2016

The Puppets, the Rocks, the Dancing

This poem feels the need to warn you
That it intends to be banal,
A single thought, slightly rhythmic,
That will barely ripple your dream.

The Compositor was showing
Samsara to Honors students
At a provincial college 
And when they got to the chickens

Being swept up by huge machines,
All part of the system, from dunes
And waterfalls, mosques and stupas
To Kalashnikovs and prisons,

Robots, fast food, prostitution,
Mountains, trash, rocks, architecture,
He could sense the uneasiness
In the shifting and sighing seats,

And he focused on the chickens
As they failed to escape the arms,
One by one, of the efficient
And utterly fail-proof machine.

He thought of his daughter's chicken
Mauled last winter by the unseen
Fox, frantically climbing the fence
And lost in the night. Same machine.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.