the root Chakra

collapsed into scattered thought,

I stare hollowly,

down into the belly,

the belly of the city,

the root Chakra of the city,

where the souls of dead cats,

find peace amongst the concrete shadows,

where music takes movement,

takes form,

in the hum of street sweepers,

and the rumbling click of grease grill exhaust fans,

churning the night into dirty sparks,

where paper pedestrians,

slice the sunlight, 

rising like lost spirits,

from the subway catacombs,

gasping for the stale air of the street,

an ice cream bucket busker drums,

a pounding beat,

as the heart parades,

stubbornly,

past cryptic memories,

frozen in innocent pain,

and decrepit thoughts,

rationalize escapist narratives,

placing value on the valueless, 

and hopes for saviours,

dazzled by the puppetry of the "friendly" and "clean,"

sobered only by the violence,

the gentle violence of knowledge,

of the illusion of the simple man's gods and floating mystics,

and the reality of love and work.

 

garbage radio

not sure the limitless pain is worth the limited pleasure,

but there is a oneness to be found in the brittle loneliness,

an at-one-ment,

but I'm getting old,

standing next to a urinal,

an old man's stream is more powerful than mine,

a sad envy washes over me,

as my head spins gently,

with garbage songs,

from your garbage radio,

so much that is wrong,

a rhythm, 

a whistle, 

a song through the night,

but perhaps somewhere deep down it's alright,

and someday,

we'll all be somewhere,

deep down.