In that long finished mid-summer,
When a boy,
Heat revised the abandoned
Schoolyard as the sun-seared black
Tar bubbled up between the asphalt
Cracks on the back playground.
It was quiet then.
Heat so fierce it could burn the light away
and blast the axis of a future we could
not see out of its position to diffuse this
noise that now consumes and
You may wish for quiet,
A reflective tone,
but you can't have it.
Instead, in the train cars and the bars
and street corners,
even in the parks and woods there are the low
sounds and grated screeching of electric chatter.
A deep concern for the holy sepulcher of the
self covers everything it seems.
Abstractions replaced with utility,
A language so stilted it has become
Attacking meaning from multiple
Directions at the same time.
The lost quiet of summer is now blurred by an
Aphasia brought on suddenly by the absence of
War in the East dimming the lights of home,
War in the West rising from the ocean to
Bellowing sound beating it out of us.