Monday, August 20, 2012

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.











 

4 comments:

temporal rooms said...

oh,
"the hum of street sweepers,
and the rumbling click of grease grill
exhaust fans . . .", takes me
back to Toronto in the seventies where we thought the town was ours at 2 am.
"the gentle violence of knowledge . . ." is, well this piece really speaks to me H.P.
this is a good, good piece.

~robert

Old Ollie said...

we are stuffed with dead cat souls out here in the sticks - nice piece sir

Square Corner said...

The words are the music. That was truly musical. Like fine lyrics to a great song.

FEL said...

Some real thick description going on here. Lyrics dripping with meaning and symbolic resonance. I really enjoyed the pace and meatiness of this one.