That tree is far away from city life.
Even if it were not so far away,
even if its roots smashed up the sidewalks of Huntington Ave.,
it couldn’t hear the 808 bass bombs that blast out your trunk
from block to shining block.
I have a chalice
no one drinks from
(not even I do)
made of
cold sun sharpened air.
Some actions are preceded by long disclaimers.
Some people are preceded by their actions.
Some people monger rumors, war and sickness.
The time for vanity is now. Time to turn
the other, more viable cheek.
These deskbound blues ring true. Not too far away
I know life is being lived—not just lives.
I am desperately aware that the wagon wheel
needs not this component, this spare part.
Endless shivering applause? Coughing up clouds?
A dead stump grows out of the brown ice,
duct-taped to it, branches of spite, malice.
Is that tree really so far away?
Listen up: over the hill or over the cliff?
(First posted on Rhetorical Vomit.)
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