The Smell of Smoke in Late Summer

Somewhere,

the where of some forest

into which

I have yet

to enter,

trees slowly burn

to charcoal.

Black

smudges the interior

of clouds.

The results of which

are peaks of stormy gray.

I am distant from these mountains,

but my lungs-

accustomed to air

heavy only with humidity-

strain.

The haze over the sun

builds thick

like bricks;

no one has shelter.

It’s later now,

and from the Southerly winds,

the smell of pine and dogwood

cloak the night.

It’s cloudless

and starless-

a phenomenon

not at all

an indicator of rain boots and umbrellas.

Tomorrow,

flurries of flip-flops

will flick up

a trillion descendants

of one instantaneous spark.

Loud children

will disrupt

the ashen coating,

but so too

shall gravity

dismantle their medieval castles

and uncanvased sketches

that decorate

the sidewalk.

Cumbersome,

each party is

to the other.

Fascination and amusement

trail alongside

all disaster.

Metropolis

What are these roots

which stretch metallically

beneath the concrete ground

sucking up

as much as is

eventually

forced down?

The bumps that

uneven the ground

beneath the step

of Man

are the triumphs

and the failures

of underground desires

springing forth to bear fruit.

Fruit of which

does not grow

to be pesticized

and picked by man

for his consumption.

Rather,

They are beings

that only wish to be looked upon

for inspiration

which try so earnestly

to grow upwards

through the pavement.

At the Vantage Point Between Here and There

Doubt expresses himself
in my ankles,
they wobble and waver
underneath my weight,
but I his worry
roll away
through the balls
of my feet.

clunk clunk clunk
clackity clack clack clack
I've never had
a light step.
Each time I start out,
my destinations
foretells
my arrival.

My heels,
striking first,
lead my arms
in their swing.
This rythmn turn clumsy,
but still I go
along
the wind
of this path.

Direction
Speed
Mentality
Purpose lies
in between
my desires.