Over fences

We don't dig deep -
the union tradition has skipped a generation.
You could mention, here, our values,
but
we never fell asleep,
we just were, when the time came
and transformed what had happened,
took it away from us.
Geometry forms the basis of my self-constructed memories,
I don't remember how you wore your hair,
but the path to your house wasn't quite perpendicular to the sidewalk
and the windows of your house
took me further back.
The sunset seemed so old-fashioned,
out-of-touch,
as if we had no more room for the outdoors
and could just spend the small hours driving around
basements and back alleys,
the haze of the irreverent lights,
telling us in the most explicit way
that these nights were not ours.
Destination is an odd concept
in that it leaves so little out,
so much to the imagination.
The subtleties of arrival, and
what story do I want to leave behind
when I get home?
I've always felt five years younger than I am
and I expect this to catch up to me
any day now, because something is building
or rather, unbuilding
and I find myself
more often
telling myself
that it's just a building
on a street in a city
and the people inside
outside
are not part of any significant universal theater
and on and on
until I don't even hear myself anymore,
and will only go down the streets I'm supposed to,
and only knock on the doors where I'm expected.

The function of this city

is to encircle
its own beating heart,
pulsing out rhythms
to a foreign chorus
bannered and proud,
(in the broad allees)
and
(in the third-ring slums)
capitulated.
The lights in the downtown
- we have not yet earned our neons -
beckon a fog, through which to break,
but it never comes this far from the sea.
A minor aortic disorder, that won't
bring the whole mess crashing down.
It won't even keep us indoors
despite the lack of parks;
the riverside is a mess, though.
The current should suggest
escape
progess
anything movement-related,
and yet
our nights
a screen around the center,
approaching borders,
hinting at movement
in the corner of your eye.

Concentration at the State Fair

Second place
in weighing your stuttered human relationships
against the tragedy of your birth.
The satisfaction of a job well done
as a consolation prize,
and the day-to-day.
I'm ten steps behind.
You heard it here, folks.
Science has failed.
This morning,
we weren't even in the same location,
can you imagine?
Contextually,
of course.
I don't aspire to any great revelations.
Appreciating the small things seems to be your game today,
if I may venture a guess
as to
the break:
the lights,
gravity and its consequences
(the weight),
candy apples, always a quick regret,
and the inconceivable transformation of a parking lot
into a vital part
of a life together.

Theory

Placated
are we standing
bold
in the corner
aging like books in a library:
structurally intact,
but oh the relevance lost.
You realize
this
is probably what we wanted,
we can live off the dust.
It's all pretty cancerous outside
anyway.

You got blood on your hands
from trying to help.
I understand you're lost
broken-down
and such,
but the misunderstandings are comic gold
and that is our blood.
Wasted talent
is what makes the world go round,
and I'm staying neutral.