THE MODERN INDIVIDUAL AS ANCIENT MONOLITH

Sometimes it will be just a title turning a thought into memories

that gets the heart moving. What comes next depends on the wind

blowing cobwebs hung from fragile branches.

One day it could be radio waves or something else emerging 

from darkness at the back of the shelf. 

Ran up five flights opposite an old remembered house.

Woke confused from a morning nap with 

a head like a washing machine, heart racing to figure

out, how can we be monoliths inside this culture?

What grace can we claim back from the vultures tearing at our flesh?

Up and open to ashes, we slip away into vague horizons

that require neat replicas of our full on-line persistence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

QUIET DOMESTIC LIFE IS 

Waiting for life to happen

is it

happening

not all music is special

sometimes a sound is a song