V. WHAT THE LIGHTNING SAW

After the neon flicker red on vacant faces
After the empty volume of the subway
After the loneliness in crowded places
The one-sided conversations on cell phones
Digitized voices routed from tower to satellite
Of lightning of smog-choked sky over cities
He who was alive is now dying inside
We who were vibrant are now dull
With no attention span

Here is no grass but only concrete
Concrete and no grass and the clogged storm drains
The drains servicing streets squeezed between city blocks
Which are themselves of concrete without grass
If there were grass here we’d risk gridlock to pause and sit
Atop the concrete we barely pause in our walk to spit
Mouths are dry and high-heeled feet are aching
If there were only grass between bared toes
In place of this concrete expanse that bakes tongues
Here one can neither scream nor speak nor sing
Yet there is not even silence in the bedrooms
But vapid impersonal TV feeds without dialogue
There is not even solitude in the bedrooms
But red sweaty faces huffing and puffing
From unmade beds in high-rise apartments
If there were grass

And no concrete
If there were concrete
And also grass
And grass
A field
A lawn among the concrete
If there were the smell of fresh-cut grass
Not the pavement
And echo of car horns
But blades of grass between cracks in concrete
Where the dandelions grow along sidewalks
Bloom die bloom die die die die
But there is no grass

Who is the third who watches always over you?
When I count, there are only you and I to make two
But when I review the grainy footage
There is always another watching with me
Silent in an expensive suit and dark sunglasses
I do not know whether friend or foe
–But who is that always watching?

What is the blast shivering the earth
Rumble of terror and mourning
Who is that lone young anonymous wandering
Into crowded street cafés, detonating unsuspecting patrons
Uncontained by security checkpoints
What is the country over the oceans
Revolts and reforms and implodes in the Middle East
Falling towers
New York, Madrid, London
Baghdad, Kabul
Unreal

05/13/2006

Author's Note: Very astringently modeled after lines 322 through 376 of "What the Thunder Said" the fifth canto of T.S. Eliot's masterwork, The Wasteland over which I obsess. I was inspired by Julie Adams.

Posted on 05/14/2006
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