2011

it gets very tricky when you try to think

about W.B Yeats and poetry durin' the 30's

while encapsulated by vibrating ends

of metal and yellowed plastic stopped still

in front of a red light.

the fumes of the engine are no longer industrial revolution

and the explosion of bombs no longer progress

so how did the post-war period influenced

the future of lines and words

and changed writing forever...

while this bus keeps moving forward

through our own time's graveyard;

a wasteland of garbage we no longer need,

televisions and scattered papers, bed-frames,

empty pot-plants and old vacuum-cleaners.

Bukowski said people look like flowers at last

but today, walking down these streets,

we all still look a lot more like broken glass,

like the heat when it hangs in the air,

like the urge to forget.