perish! they yell

perish! they yell,

perish in the flames of hell!,

the flames of burning tires,

over potholed roads,

warehouses of food and furniture,

warehouses of machines,

processing food and furniture,

processing reality through machines,

to be struck at,

only by a sword,

a lonely sword,

a poet's sword,

a sword sheathed between mean streets,

more like lost streets,

dead ends and strict one-ways,

a sword forged from pre-linguistic experience,

captured by trans-analytical awareness,

trying to wrap language around the sirens,

the chopper growl,

the parking lot chatter,

the 3am howls of homeless hearts,

looking for rest in a quiet park,

a bowl of soup,

a clean bed,

a drink,

a hit,

a feeling of peace,

that work-a-day peace,

or the work-a-day illusion of peace,

the work-a-days will be up soon,

running and punching,

through weeks,

months and years,

Christmases and Birthdays,

sipping super-juice on green grass,

planning the next moment,

the soul gets lost,

lost in the alleys,

hidden in the steam of a busy dish pit,

buried in the piles of garbage,

but it breathes,

endlessly,

timelessly,

beyond ego and emptiness,

beyond being and nothingness,

still available,

reachable,

just asleep,

quieted,

perched with the pigeons,

on the balcony,

on the edge of the mind.