There is a softening current
In which we all strive to reside
Spoken from the ecstatic pop of firecrackers,
A tinkling of wine glasses with eyes and a sudden warm touch,
The elevator rising with the waiting love of two silent bodies,
The mental act of dissent,
Choking the speed of trains to a halt,
The rushing logic of the world’s chorus
As you pry your way to the center,
With the box, your heart’s recorder,
Your fingers--greased from the machine’s buttons,
Give way to the watering eyes steeped in the passion
Of the hordes that filled every square and ran down each lane…
Hands grappled the sun-marooned bars
Anchoring your feet onto the soapbox
From there the world worked like great torrents over your body.
Wails and vociferations marbled the land into an absurd painting
Hollowed and homogenized, still in its actions.
Grotesque and beautiful.
Pressing record, the machine breaks into giant pieces,
Falling like great heaves of sadness,
Like chunks of baby furniture,
Rolling and sputtering to a stop on the cobbles below.
Tires my emotions,
I'm left with dry vociferations..... (vocabulary(?))
Blanks my mind,
And severs my dictations.
Steals my thoughts,
And rapes my mind.
Breaks and violates,
Privacy shut down.
Feelings closed off,
Barred, avoiding judgement.
~Written in mid-2003 when I was fourteen/fifteen.
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