Poem: Sculptor

 

Sculptor

 

i asked

the underbelly of a cloud

what it was doing,

up above an ego-scape of high-rises,

and people who were tense as bullets

waiting to go off.

 

didn’t it know, i asked,

that lazy was not an official

earn-your-worth pace?

wasn’t it just too odd, i said,

the flocks of scurrying shoes

versus the blasé blue of the sky?

 

i said to the cloud

that everything important

now happened in a rush,

at a pace far faster

than whatever had driven the universe

before. 

 

in fact, i said,

wasn’t it all about the here?

this vortex of minds and money,

this chain reaction of needs:

the lightning-fast sexiness,

the lustful flux of teeming webs?

 

i said to the cloud

that the pace would soon lunge

to the edges of the universe,

and touch the everywhere

of every how.

 

but the cloud

just kept on floating, easy and free,

sculpting ideas and emotions:

every joy or horror, dream or nightmare,

in my pushy mind.

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