META 007

The two of us in the park
slumming in modernism's suburbs
eyeballing the trash of what had been.
And you saying how much better
it is all targets gone,
how when you tighten the big bow now
and aim, and fire, it's only at the
sky, only a lot of space out there
and the arrows always vanish having
gone nowhere,
conquered nothing.
You tell me that's how it is now
and everything's cool now
and try to understand
because finally all the crap's
in the can and
it's taken a long time to
get around to this,
let go without winging toward
some payoff, some gratification
of the cerebrum, some thump
in the blood.
Call it love you say and
let it go at that.

META 008

Just the happening along,
something maybe there
or....
No big deal
because nobody there to decide
things, how the shadows bend and
drift, what goes where....
An afternoon inside a clock
with dead hands & no sound,
the sun very big but holding off
saying nothing....
Just you peeling a label off a can
to give the mystery back,
let something dark float in
its own juice until....
The street not even waiting for
footsteps or wheels,
just there in all this heat
and emptiness
belonging only to the ants
and flies
and they're not talking,
not at all.