Concrete leaves decorate the stone work
around the fountain and the archways above
the doors, but all cosmetics end
where the building meets the sidewalk.
Things are put places by something
even if it’s happenstance. Old cars made
of thicker metal, with tires so much paler
than the ones we put on minivans and buses,
take up spaces spanning further down the street
Those engines know how to eat, pouring
black smoke by the cloud out in their wake
while they contain a fire barely being harnessed.
Let’s stop dressing all this up and talk about
what’s really going on. This optical galactic song
that never seems to realize it’s direction.
The spiral shapes in mollusk shells are just a bit
of fun much like the concrete leaves on buildings
overdone by people with a budget that is nothing
but the cost of showing which of us deserves
a chance to speak.
Teleporting Typewriter 