Direct (5/25/11)

The landscape doesn’t change—

it’s always the same mish-mosh

of abandoned container trucks,

idly growing roots into the ground,

scattered like God’s misplaced Legos;

of shattered windows,

broken from years of neglect &

standing sentry in buildings

that no one plans to return to.

Graffiti is strewn about the buildings

that stand in the foreground,

while behind are great mammoth structures,

labeled with the names and logos

of the new pillars of industry.

Stopping temporarily

to re-enact an old math problem

(X number get on, Y get off—

who’s happy with this arrangement?)

before we continue on—

no local stops,

express past all of the bad neighborhoods,

and a few of the nice ones,

just to make it seem fair.

The grey sky seems

so much more ominous here.

Rolling gently over and under

the dilapidated infrastructure,

cosmetically not much to look at

and even worse in stability,

travelers pass by,

leaving the quiet arboreal tranquility

for the rush of the goofy foolish human parade.

Churches pass by the windows,

multitudes in the poorer sections—

“When all else is gone, God remains.”

No hope emanates from them,

or at least not quickly enough

to be absorbed

by this cavalcade of wannabe

titans of business.

So,

the poor huddle in their houses of God,

while the golf courses of the wealthy

pass by,

two stops away.

Into the downtowns,

heading westward,

the churches are replaced

by temples of the almighty dollar,

and suburban dreams of white picket fences,

backyards and smiling happy children.

Halfway home now.

II.

Civility breaks down

as the rules of unspoken silence

are egregiously broken.

What is left when order breaks down?

Rows of garden apartments

scatter the passing landscape

before giving way

to a headlong plunge into the woods.

If only the broken windows

could see how little graffiti was here—

just trophy wives

walking golden retrievers.

Then more insular apartments:

filing cabinets for newly converted

neo-Con yuppies.

The parking lots look like

commercials for German sports cars.

The schools

are surrounded by meticulously groomed landscapes,

and many are named for saints.

The question is,

which is more almighty here:

Christ, or the money-changers

he ejected from the temple.

The rose city has no roses

worth seeing anymore—

eyes closed,

the sunlight breaks through the clouds.

Fenced in houses,

surrounded by roads with cutesy suburban

dime-a-dozen names,

appear in the breaks between the trees.

Each housing a family

living its own journey

in this docile, domesticated existence.

Where the land was cleared

to lay these tracks,

attempts have been made to restore

the presence of nature—

these attempts are not made

back down the tracks,

only here.

The sky is blue,

partly cloudy

as the next big stop comes up.

With X times 5 having gotten off already,

how many will remain

when the end of the line is reached?

As the station arrives,

so does the view of the newest

human filing cabinet,

which is unabashedly announcing

it is now leasing.

Another women

begrudgingly walks her dog.

The desolation returns:

row houses and old buildings litter the present windowscape,

hope appears to have gotten off at the last stop.

The water tower on the mountaintop across the way

has seen this approach

and quickly hides in the shade.

The eerie sense of desolation

is compounded by the rolling scenery—

a vast tree graveyard.

It appears these massive steel snakes

are dendrophobic –

scissors beat paper.

Almost empty now,

the journey continues

through the hillsides

– a useless stop is bypassed –

minutes away from home,

the relief sets in slowly,

lasting until this slideshow of humanity

repeats tomorrow.

Direct: List