Thursday, May 26, 2005

Badly formatted, badly written.

I didn’t understand.

Life is about sitting under trees

Letting the world pass you by

…like summer clouds drifting

through bluest sunny sky

I didn’t understand.

The point

of the pointless hard work, manual

chores a machine could do

…done without music

or complaint

or iced tea, with ice. tall grass

or broken branches, deck swings

the smell of tobacco clinging

to humid air in my lungs

shadows on yellow shag carpets

and polished French root beer mugs

I can’t take it back

or pretend there was understanding

or grace

Too much is said and gone.

I wish I could sit under tress without guilt

the compulsion to be part life passing by.

I forfeited my seat. I stand

At the mall. The living push past, worshipers

at an altar of things.

It shoves at me, obstructs my view

I can’t see the empty spot

beneath the grey barked tree

There’s no asking forgiveness. They had little

but needed little. Is it laziness

when it’s strategic? Why can’t I figure

out how to pass through the throng

and sit beneath the tree?

They’re closing around me, packing me

like fish

in ice,

not stinking but still dead.

I want to worship their god;

have peace through having.

I had it back then,

when the grass slipped through my fingers.

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