La Ciudad del Fantasma
10/12/02
We are the fallen folk
Trampled by the speed of light and the crawl of emotions
Neglected by the spirits
Subdued by iron, concrete, gray skies
Held close by steam stealing away from midnight manholes
We succumb under the weight of our desires
Living just to shove off from life, peering into the bottle
Yet never finding the messageWaiting for contentment to rap on our oaken doors
Fully knowing we are deaf to the staccato announcement of graceForgetting the simple and beautiful
Even as the autumn leaves envelope us
Repulsed, we brush the leaves off our fine wool coats,
Talk of breakfast, the rain, and the price of wheat in Chicago
We ostracize the world; it’s safer this way
And we press on, juicing on predigested thought
Packing our bowls with the rhetoric of fools
Endlessly floating down the freeway
Dreaming of nothing, nothing at all