Futurism

Brooklyn Bridge, by Joseph Stella (1917)

It's over now
The expectation
of things far greater
God's mysteries unraveled

with concrete pours
and piston grease
Life made easier

at ninety degree intervals

Revel at the glories past
That once were ideals imagined
Incapable of traveling from mind
Now ignored at the corner of

commonplace and main

His future
Is your past

And yet you build
tinker toys exploding atoms
steel girders erecting cures
for the common cold
While men torture in secret

Babies are thrown in dumpsters

And women mutilated for their sex

There is always the pain

There is pain always

I shall return
called to the sea

From whence I came

There is always that joy
of scent mingled with salt

upon my tongue

as the sea crashes

reverberate within my mind

beat within my heart
singularity with every wave

slammed against the shore

This has been

before he was born
and will after you die.

05/02/2009