12 September 2009


Where is the voice of my generation?
It floats above, or below
in some indecipherable shape.
And so much comes between us.
So much that I hate.
I know nothing but disdain
it seems these days.

So much of the identity of our generation seems based on the left or the right. The either, or. The bipolar, dualistic character of contemporary politics. So divided are we that the call for reaching across this "aisle" seems futile. Any halfwit with an average wingspan can reach across an aisle. It's a given, small step for a (hu)man and a small step for (hu)mankind. My disdain spans this aisle, and it is no great accomplishment.

This disdain is not of intellect or politics. It is one directed towards anything that prevents us from seeing some common human familyhood. So far, our generation, in the face of a global (online) culture and global (climatological) threats, has resisted the call to accept the human. Focusing instead on aisles.

Get over it. Shake hands, hug, or simply smile at one another. There is no right, there is no wrong. No heaven and hell. Just make the most of it while you can. Or else we'll end up as a laughable reiteration.

08 September 2009

Sunset in Suburbia

Listen: See those rosy reddish wisps,
wafting shapelessly in some summer's swansong.
Asea as aimless
Rem'nants of exhalation.

See familiar figures.
Silhouetted steel streetlights seem strangely sad.
Forlorn e'en ghosts bowing heavy heads.
Carrying some human shame manifest.

Casting an artificial, lifeless, pale gaze,
as we commute below.

Such contrast
Here in suburbia.
This dismal sprawl of marching urbanity.
Here horizons become more concrete;
Squarish sedimentary frames.

The wisps are gone.