A Transparent Universe

by RMCott

Posted to Poetry on 2004-03-29 21:56:00

I am fairly new to LitKicks, but I so appreciate what everyone involved is contributing to on this website. The piece I have included below is quite long, so if you do not have the time to read it, I fully understand. However, if you do have the time, I very much would be interested in your opinions. I wrote it a year ago, and I just want to hear some feedback.

Thanks for welcoming me. I look forward to reading more of your poetry and adding what I can.


– I –
Sitting in the corner of this quickly crowding place, I feel
Able to do nothing but think and laugh
As I look around, as I
Listen to my fellow race of
Young and old, ugly,
Beautiful and intelligent,
Ridiculous, male and female,
Depressed and joyful, blind
Converse, sing, talk to themselves
Until they are kicked out because
The little, white numbers posted on that
Conclusive little operating hours sign. Yet,
Until that time, this universe
Of Starbucks is only ours, we are
The breeding manifestations of all-knowing gods, icons
To a vivacious culture,
The stars and planets and constellations
Without names. We are the black and gray and white
Forms and shadows somehow captured in
Three by five moments,
Yet unconfined to the likes of any frame. We
Are rolling our colossal, chosen dice across
Mile-long craps tables, as though we are, ultimately,
Ahead of the game,
Whatever Milton Bradley wants to call it. We are running
Insanely as failure chases at our ankles, as silent spectators
Applaud us on, as blood pours down
Our faces, as sweat pumps
Through our twisting, cobweb veins.
We are birthing, reborn, dying, and
Dead, brothers, sisters, and children,
Travelers, surveyors, explorers, a
Modern day of debonair and crass gentlemen
And dames. We are lining our numb feet upon the edges
Of eternal high dives, preparing ourselves
To plunge off and extended our souls perpendicular with that below us,
Head first into the rising, crackling flames
Of unmentionable demise. We are motionless, as though
Crippled and lame, avoiding the questions roaring
In our brains like lions at a circus which, after a feeding
And a whipping are expected to calm, silence, suddenly tame. We fill
Ourselves with stillness, and, though we dare not
Move an inch, Time spreads its wild wings, crying
Like a siren into the night, and so leisurely,
Past us, flies.

– II –
Musicians assemble on the patio, but
Their guitar strums and
Bongo tappings and
Fitting voices
Are just loud enough to penetrate through
The thick, clear, large, windowpanes
Which separate the song and the crowd inside.
The tune may not exactly be
As entertaining on the other side – it is barely distinguishable
Over all the other persistent noise of this
Caffeinated wonderland – but,
It is entertaining all the same.
They keep transitioning from one song
To the next, crescendoing as they will, as
They will. All those outside
Are not musically gifted like they, yet
The secretly listening tables of people and people
Know that each note sounds just right.
Their uncut, unwashed hair pulled back
In ponytails and dreadlocks shakes
Precisely to the beat, as though
Their curls and dark strands are tambourines.
The trio of young men act as if
The stone patio upon which they dance
And sing,
And project,
Is their stage, as if the tables of people
And people look to admire
These heroin and cocaine and acid-tripping junkies
Who will soon be nothing
But strung out, dazed and confused, teenage flunkies
Waiting for their improbable big break, when
They hear their demo CD over a cheap, static-coughing radio.
They will not
Stop singing, believing that the listening ears are
Microphones testing, testing, 1, 2, 3, waiting
For the day when
They are professional musicians,
Though they would prefer not to be called professional
At all. They are the natural talent of America
Which will be exchanged for a quick fix,
The natural talent of America
Which will end their four-eighths intro measure
By the count of six,
The natural talent of America
Which will end, and end so instantly
In swollen, needlepoint tracks of fear
As they listen to a 1970’s record turn
Like the isolated room they are watching through
Their bloodshot, teary, dilated eyes.

– III –
While four newspaper lay stacked
At his feet, and his fingers
Flip through the two others lying
Over his table and occupying the seat
Next to him, he only occasionally glances up
To watch the men of mediocrity passing him by,
To behold the incarnations of his greatest fear falling
Like blurry stars through his separated galaxy
Of conspiracy and selfishness. He feels compelled
To applaud the worthy whom he sees, so he does,
And those he spurs on take it with a smile,
Questioning the origin and making of this man,
Wondering what,
Or who
Transformed,
Or founded
His ethics, his perspective, his systematic faith in knowledge
And the finite limitations he himself bears, pondering
If he has formulated a long-term plan and if such
A formulation even matters in the ominous scheme of things.
The miniscule paper cup, which contained his dopio espresso
And he downed like an alcoholic downs a shot,
Sits alone upon the black ink and headlines disclosing
Journalists’ take on the prior day. He is
Hunched over the readings which he believes
Are the all-important, crucial steps
To a position over the community, the
Pedestal to an elevated rule where cruel or kind
Men and women and figments of the imagination might
Take control of the invisible and connected strings of
A marionette humanity. For the moment, he has placed
His hidden pride in the achievement of his forty some odd years, in
His government over one, maybe two hundred other men
Among whom he once held a similar rank. However,
His command, now, is, always was
In jeopardy to those below who are
All looking up at his place among other generals,
Preparing to swoop at the stilts barely holding him
Up in his lofty position. They might follow through,
They might not; yet even if
One of these other men whom, in all
Honesty, he is no greater than, swept under him,
At his feeble knees, or
If he maintained his high standing
Where all eyes might know his cynical face, all
Ears might hear his resonating command, all
Lips might give him his self-nominated praise and
None attempted a mutiny, this man
Of a common name will remain common all the same.
He is nothing but another
Man swirling among the endless breaking waves
Of mediocrity bound
To crash upon the dry shores of history
And soak through the sand grains, all so indistinguishable
In their flat, packed, huddles of motionless land.

– IV –
A small flame forms
In the instance of a spark and thus begins
The chain of ever-lit cigarettes for
The night; the glowing ends – red then black, red
Then black – burn on and extinguish with the city lights.
Their circle of football stars and cheerleaders
And party-throwers and class clowns forms
A fortress wall of popularity, which seems
Impenetrable, while the monarchs to this palace
Seem to gear not a single care outside their colorful,
Well-fashioned wall. They laugh together
Over some sarcastic joke about one side
To this circular tower, as if ripping down the stone forms,
Piece by piece,
Is all they gather for,
As if their lips are cannons shooting off
An armory into that which they themselves built
With attitude and style and razor sharp perception
Of their brutal, self-consumed world.
They gossip and litter their surroundings with
Language and griping. They lean back in their chairs, still
Without any conscious or significant care, and
Though this may be the reality now, surely,
As they are thrown into the world like
A criminal into a cell, they will discover
They barely have a clue as to
What they must do to scrape by, for
They will no longer have their brief pleasures, father’s thick wallet,
Or habitual highs. The conversations and laughter vary
From topic to topic, or more precisely,
From occurrence to occurrence, for a topic
Would kill the light-hearted mood. “Didja hear?”
“Danny threw his fuckin’ guts up
All over Ashley’s new Camaro floor.”
“Tammy screwed me over. I don’t know what
I expected, though – she’s a bitch!”
“It sucks so bad Bobby got caught roidin’,
There’s no way we’ll beat that school
Of athletic beasts on Friday night.”
“I can’t believe Katie told Jenny,
And she told Billy. Everyone’s a goddamn snitch!”
They continue sitting together, waiting
For something to do, all needing to start up
That essay due tomorrow, blowing expanding
Rings of smoke and trying to gather as many as they can
Like Mardi Gras beads, with only themselves to rely upon
As far as trust is concerned. By the end of the night
They will all peel out in their pimped out rides, raising
Smoke from their tires, but this will only
Be after they are informed about
The party going on, where the booze is, this will only
Be after the ashes of cigarettes have piled and
Their smoke chain dims. Their lives will then
Roll on and spin away to the endless raging party
Like the distorted reflections of roads,
Which are turning at seventy miles an hour
In their vehicles’ polished, chrome,
Eight thousand dollar rims.

– V –
While one man sits by himself, and two others,
Across from each other, the
Utility they provide is exactly the same – all
Three, success stories to a generation
Which regards wealth an ultimate achievement,
Serving their almighty green gods which seem
Omnipotent enough to accomplish anything.
They love nothing, no one
But themselves, they are so tired
Yet unable to stop walking
And talking through life as though they must
Keep their steps and speech in time
With some metronome only they can hear. They
Are unable to leave their work atop
The ever-piling stacks of leaning, paper towers
On the mahogany desks, in their dens,
At home. The two meet, negotiating a deal,
Making the best of a B2B sale, trying
To find a middle ground so that they can
Sign here, date there, shake hands, say, “A pleasure,
As always. Talk to you soon.” The other
Man sits, pounding away at the black, silicone keyboard
He might as well call a friend, considering
All the quality time they spend together. The man
Sits, flipping through manila folders
He might as well call his children, considering
He knows far more about the red lined, yellow pages
Numbered, and in order than he does about
The newborn and four year old daughter of his,
Sleeping in their well-furnished rooms in the darkness
Of his home. His wife sits,
Listening to the ten O’clock news anchor
She might as well call her husband, considering
The fact that he talks to her much more than her busy husband has
In a long, long time. She will stay awake, though, until
He pulls up the driveway in his black beamer and he
Stumbles in the door with his briefcase and laptop
Still attached to his wrists. She will just
Want to know about his day, but he always enters
His four thousand square foot sleeping quarters
Too tired for even five minutes of relational redemption. He will just
Want to hit the sack, because he has
To wake up early for the 7:00 am flight
To New York for the weekend – he has business
To attend to for the company’s sake.
She will already have her guess, but
His daughter will still ask, “Where’s daddy,”
And when her mother replies,
“He’s at work, in another place, for a few days,”
Her curious, bright, innocent eyes will ask only
One more thing:
“Again?”
Because a child does not understand, should
Not understand,
What is so important about the American Dream
And work, that her father is unable to sit at the family
Dinner table and he has to leave, repeatedly,
Before breakfast and dawn. It will seem to her that
The city for off is his home, that
At the office there is something to be desired, even though
All she sees is a hardwood desk and rows
Upon rows of file cabinets.
Again
However, this is only from the perspective of a child.
Black coffee is powering these men, it is
Biting at their tongues, it is the oil running
These fine-tuned, flawlessly maintained machines. They
Are working ceaselessly towards some attainment
Of recognition, of fortune, of power, but
They have forgotten, or perhaps,
Never realized, everything they are
Working for equates to an absolute nothing
In the final hour.

– VI –
Because they always suspect and fully understand
That they are the epicenters of attention,
Two teenage, life-size Barbies with different birth names strategically
Place themselves so that all eyes might study them closely,
Right before the entrance into this nightly retreat.
Their female peers see these fashion magazine cutout ideals,
Disguise their envy with cutting remarks
And cruel stares, while men, on the other hand,
Watch their sexually fantasies and
Express their lust to their fellow salivating friends
In blatant whispers
And double dares.
The bulimic princesses each light a slim cigarette, then
Begin superficial discussions about what
They will do when they reach college, which
Frat house party they will go to, what
They’re going to wear, all
As though they can barely wait to be raped
By a drunk guy who looks like that model
On page 57 of Abercrombie’s fall catalogue from two years ago.
They sit there, sipping away
At a tall caramel Frappuccino they will end up
Forcing themselves to vomit anyway, twirling
Their nic sticks and tapping them
With their dainty, polished index fingernails as the ashes
Grow longer and beg to fall. They sit there
Laughing, dressed in empty smiles, bragging
About the last time they were fucked
Up the ass, comparing the sizes of
The mindless jock’s cock they sucked
Last Saturday night. They are
The sophomore college dropouts ahead,
The girls that will barely make it through freshman year
With a passing grade because they spend
Every single night flashing their fake IDs, reciting
All the information on their little plastic card,
Feeling better about themselves when
A herd of horny twenty-something year-olds surround them
Like a ravenous pack of wolves at the bar. They are
The victims of mother who married
For shit loads of money, cheated
On their husbands as their husbands also had, then
Divorced by the age of thirty-three, and just
Like their role models, they will do the same, fine
With the fact that they are merely
Perpetual prostitutes with platinum rings.
Their children will truly be sons of bitches, the sad
Victims of resentful women who
Take their fathers for half their net worth, then watch
As their shallow matriarchs return
Back to the club scene and bars wearing halter tops
And miniskirts without panties, or whatever
Else is considered sexy at the time, and
At those dimly lit counter tops of “What can I getcha,”
They will search out some guy who’s looking to get laid
Just for a few free drinks to wash down the
Pain of the
Knowledge of the
Fact as to
Who they are.
Even though their ex will have the kids for the weekend,
After another ride on a condemn skin dick
In the loneliness of another unkempt, sick, single loser’s condo,
Sometime after two or three AM, they will
Throw on their clothes again and drive back
To an empty home.
And as they prepare themselves for bed
They will stand before the judgment of their bathroom mirror,
Where there is no hiding anything,
Where their dark eyes seem all the darker. There,
They will weep black jagged lines of mascara
Down the thick makeup cheeks of a forty year-old’s
Slowly sagging face,
They will remember their childhoods,
Their bright eyes of ages ago, desiring
Only a one way trip back
To their elementary school days, before that cute, little
Cocky eighth grade bastard practically demanded, “C’mon,
I love you.”
But teary eyes’ hopes and memories will not be enough
To buy a ticket of return, so
The bitter women who resemble teenagers
Of the past will pull the empty
Bed covers over their curled bodies, tightly,
Half-sleep,
Half-wake,
Then carefully prepare themselves and mask
Their elongating wrinkles
For another gray day.

– VII –
All philosophers after a freshman year
At their separate universities of choice,
Against a glass wall huddle four young men,
Debating the night away, signaling
Their disagreement with screaming arms and hands,
Discussing Plato and Socrates and, even more, their own
Theories about philosophy and death and life
On the whole. They cannot
Help but try
To masturbate their minds in an attempt
To incite some grand, genius, orgasm of thought, they cannot
Help but sit there, trying
To appear more brilliant than those a table away and
Impress them with their further considerations into politics
As a hobby, or even a career – “Everyone knows
We’re in dire need,” they publicly affirm each other
Along with themselves. Continuing
On, they debate the existence of God, gods,
Any god,
Evaluate the importance of religion, converse
As though these nineteen year-old conclusions
Are the final say
To issues the greatest minds of history have
Gone mad contemplating, to topics which arouse
The entire spectrum of human emotion, to
Questions as old and pervading as time itself. They can do nothing
But discuss, in animated form,
All that they know
Even the most miniscule, trifling fraction about –
About what an inspired concept communism truly is,
Why it fails to work,
About the shifting ethics of democracy, about leaders
And their hypocrisy, about everything, about
Nothing, about
Eastern religion and Western religions, about
The pros of monotheism, the cons of Polytheism, about
Why in countless paintings and sculptures and other artists’ depictions,
Christ Himself appears so serious, yet that fat little
Buddha cannot seem to wipe off his curious, captivating smirk.
They are the young men who will voice
Their vehement opinions when the instants arise, those
Who will be liberal and rightwing activists, though
They registered as Independents when the government
Offered them the choice. They are
This next generations string of crazed professors
That students convince their classmates are on some
Hallucinogenic drug. They will want to
Change The System upon
Receiving their diplomas, but
Will realize as they set their light feet into the world
That they are far too insignificant
To change anything. They will go back to college,
For their Masters, and upon receiving another
Piece of official, stamped, signed, and dated paper,
They will feel more equipped to
Change the System, but
Will realize as they step lightly into the world
That they are still far too insignificant
To change anything. Discouraged,
They will quickly consider
Moving to Scotland or
Southern France or
Northern England, but then ask
Themselves what the hell they will do as
An American in Europe or
On an island like the UK.
They will think. “I’ll
Write. I’ll
Read. I’ll
Learn.” They will draw up a rough budget
And plan of action, but after a detailed
Analysis of hypothetical situations, they will conclude that
It would not quite work out
Financially, realistically, even optimistically;
They will have no choice but to settle. Then, teaching,
Cracked out, alcoholic,
Nymphomaniac, insomniac college kids who hold
No apparent goals, these passionate philosophers
Of the past will be left to do nothing but
Forever wonder, if there is a God after all, what
In His name happened to kids like them, so
Interested in the world,
So excited
About the role they might lead in
The epic of life,
So unprepared
But daring to try and make a difference, wired
On quad espressos and No-Dozes, debating
With the entire energy of their minds, living in the distant
Yet very real realm, which has never recognized watches,
Digital red numbers, sundials, wise and towering
Grandfather clocks, or
Even the pressing consciousness of time.

– VIII –
“Don’t look now” is a common whisper mumbled when
Those who know this excuse for a man walks in wearing
The same clothes he wore two days ago, not to mention
The cheap shades he sports whenever he decides to show
His rotund face. They mumble
Because they know him well enough from their one
Interaction that they wish
To never speak with him again. So they hide
Their eyes, for if such contact is made
In conjunction with his, he never fails
To strike up a conversation on
Some irrelevant topic of which
He understands not a single point about. And the
Pathetic truth must also be considered, that
He lives with his grandmother
Even though he is somewhere
Around the age of thirty-four, that at the register
He even uses her credit card to purchase
His beverage of choice, that he drives here
In her huge Cadillac, everyday, in hope
Of just a single dialogue
With a single soul, whoever it might be. He
Hates leaving without holding one, but the question
Is, who will talk to this sad man, for
After beginning a discussion, whatever the reason, it seems
No ending lies in store, and even when
An end arrives, it always makes the second party feel rude.
Sometimes the end comes so abruptly, the kind gesture
Leaves a compassionate one feeling depressed for the unmentioned
Depression this pathetic, chuckling man has known
Nearly all of his life. Without an answer to the question, he just keeps on
Sitting there in his cushy, purple arm chair, sipping
His single shot iced coffee, alone,
Staring off distantly and
With uneasy, wide eyes around
At the only company he has to call his own,
In the conversations of other couples. His name
Is plain, like his face, his mind
Is simple, his heart is simple, he
Is difficult to read; he probably
Weeps every time he locks a door
And changes his extra large clothes.
When his grandmother dies and he is freed
From this family obligation, he will, without doubt, move
Back to his more familiar home, Chicago, trying
To once again find another occupation, which he will not lose
Like his previous, trying to forget his miserable
Suburbia’s past of distressed preoccupied disillusion
To the hope that someone in this harsh,
Clamorous, superficial universe wishes
To talk with him.
He is a fading star, which
Shall soon completely disappear, and, it will be
No wonder that when this faint light of infinitesimal mass
Is gone,
Not a cosmic planet or star will change
Their orbital pattern
Or care.

– IX –
As if the glass doors to this coffee shop are
The wooden planks to Noah’s great ark and the night sky
Has begun to flood, it seems every creature
Entering this shelter from the storm
Enters in pairs. They arrange
Their chairs to perfectly align with one
Another, so they might be able to stare into
Their significant others’ eyes across the expanse
Of their small, round table. One of these pairs is old, wrinkled,
And gray, half of which is partly crippled, half of which
Remembers little. Another
Pair is young, beautiful, and in the best sense,
Gay, half of which has fallen into the rapture of love, half
Of which thinks they have also fallen, but has more so
Stumbled, and is not yet
Completely sure what to call their emotion. The old couple sits
After having taken
A near eternity to order a mere
Traditional cup of coffee with a little room and a
Water for the missus, while the young two stand until
Their names are called. The married ones
Are not holding hands, because the reach
Is a bit too much, but
The handicapped fellow remembers a time
Playing footsies under an Italian restaurant’s table, sliding
His hand gracefully up his lover’s skirt, dancing
In his fingers’ delicate movements and pressure. The married ones
Are not holding hands, because the reach is
A bit too much, but, though she does not remember lots, she
Remembers after the war, nearly a lifetime ago, when
He returned home, stepping off a plane, and they,
For the first time in far too long,
Kissed, embraced, held warm hands again. The married ones
Are not holding hands, the minutes are becoming
Shorter as time passes, and their reach spans
Far more than an arm’s length. They have
Not an abundance of time remaining, the coffee palace
Is soon closing, they are leisurely dying; the cripple will
Rest in his casket first, though simultaneous death
Would be best. The naïve ones
Have no such worry, time
Awaits, they are not paying any attention
To their melting, blended drinks, they are lost
In the infatuation of the other’s eyes and
Flirtatious grin, asking the most shallow
Questions of preference and past –
“What’s your favorite color? Your favorite food? Your favorite shop
At the mall? Your favorite number? Your favorite movie? Your
Favorite mood? What’s your favorite this? Your favorite
That?” And they consistently reply with the always typical
“Me, too.” Their end seems apparent even now.
He will remember her as his first real fuck and
She will remember him only as the charming crook
Who stole that which was only hers.
Staring into the eyes which will be forgotten so soon, they may
Pass each other in the street
And whisper to their friends what a bitch she was and what
An oversized dick he turned out being. They might
Even use the other as an example to their some day high school
Children who will have just began dating
Some seemingly perfect mate, yet the parents see
Right through the vagueness of the teenager’s twinkling eyes into
The future of tears and wasted memories
That awaits their children with the patient killer, time.
The youngsters, of course, will not listen,
And the parents, of course, will not display further care, they will
Just watch and relive the disaster flight of their first love
All over again. And as these parents
Watch that which they once were, strangely amused, the
Married ones will continue slowly dying off, trying
To remember how
Their love began. The flood will continue
Though the rain cannot be seen, or tasted; two by two
The world will continue entering, though the space will be
And has already been so remarkably wasted.

– X –
In a dim corner, where the light seems
Frightened to touch,
There hides a boy who might as well be invisible;
He would not mind becoming invisible, though,
He fears becoming transparent like
Those countless he knows, those
Countless he sees right through.
He hunches over his tiny, lone table,
Over his loose leaf echoes and black hardback
Journal, under a pen name, uncertain
If he desires to ever, in his lifetime, suffer fame,
With all the patience he is able
To arouse, waiting, watching the universe
Around him
Spin and spin.
He sits there, balancing
The weighty extremes of metaphysical and simple truth,
Watching, with his invisible eyes, the eternal
Souls of those playing
Their guitars, whispering
Sweet nothings, debating
Issues of the greatest relevance,
Ranting and raving, counting
Calories to themselves, ignoring the world
Around them.
He sits there, watching, from his shadowed corner,
The hopeless souls of these
Rich, spoiled, suburbia whores, victims
Of their own vengeance, these
Green-eyed robots in suits, overeducated
Rambling fools,
Refuse to fall on their knees as they, without
Any evident iota of regret,
Sin and sin.
He is glued to the pages and pages he writes, hoping
He need not explain in depth
The overwhelming sorrow he feels as he
Studies the faces and mannerisms and conversations
These creatures bear. He hopes
His message is relevant philosophically and historically,
That it is influential, distressing, more
Than clear. He sits there mumbling the emphasized words
He scribbles down with printing only he can read,
But even as his lettered lines strike like lightening
To the page and his lips utter the thunderous phrases
A split second later, somehow, he still remains invisible, outside
Of the universe which continues
Crumbling and rotating
At a migraine persuading speed, intently watching
Everyone and everything as
Each star illuminates, fades, explodes, and
All fall.
He almost bawls as he listens
To people’s remaining time in life disappear to
The methodic, unmelodic “why me” tick tock of their complaints, but
It is not the nature of their pointless objections
Which edges him towards the torrent of tears. Instead,
It is in the revelation he understands, the knowledge
That these poor wretched beings are so
Consumed by themselves
The hatred they aim towards the world
And their existence will be
The only conscious sentiment
They remember from their entire lives
As their worst of fears nears, as they lay
Gasping in the sight of a hospital ceiling, grasping
The thin linens of a gurney with their sweaty palms, masking
The failure they meet in the old man who has just finally discovered
Seventy, tiring years knows no cure. He sits there, honestly
Trying to evaluate himself in lyrical stanzas, running
Like a youthful Julie Andrews through his fields of pages, reducing
The eternal souls surrounding him
To an approximate conclusion, trying
To pose the most crucial question subtly
Yet realizing he must be blunt. He sits there
Watching these weak, desperate fools
Who believe what they have is everything, while they
Live for nothing
But the transitory pleasures and purposes
Of a blind humanity – for greed and
Contingent devotion, recognition
And a weightless escape, for pride and
Futile knowledge, convenience
And a loose cunt. So quickly this
Starbucks universe of commotion
And howling will settle abruptly, somewhere
Around 9:54, when a tired barista,
Ready to crash, explains, “Sorry
Everyone, but it’s time to close, so,
If ya wanna, grab your last drink,” and all he can think
Is “Get the hell out!” The door
Will shut as the invisible boy
Becomes visible again, rising from his
Unlit corner, no matter how much he wants
To stay, tiptoeing slowly to the deafening patio
Outside, where he will
Finish his opus in a run-on sentence
Or two, where amidst the cackles and triumphs
Of unseen demons, he will hush his silent laughter
And condemnations of his own pathetic kind. He will
Take a brief seat among the gathering of apathetic, tired
Spirits, in the nucleus of a dark, transparent universe which
Is crushing him as it continues, bemusedly,
Ever-spinning and expanding until its most certain end.
He will take one more look around – quietly
Of course – gather himself, then slowly walk to his car
Through a vacating lot wreaking of
Dripping oil, melting tar, and piling trash. He will yawn,
Growing older as every instant passes, leaving
Everyone as they are and everything
As it is.
While the blinding headlights of his soothing car inch
Over the black pavement of a highway leading somewhere
He might unearth rest, he will wonder how many more
He could
Write of and translate into reflective phrases, how many
More he could bear to watch before floods
Poured from his tempestuous eyes, how
Many more he could try to touch with his extended murmurs
And unrequited advice. But,
As he had long ago understood, to his great
Disappointment, he will remind himself
In a profound, sober, barely audible whisper,
“I can only write so much…”