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In the center it’s blackness but
at the edges
I can see a peircing glow from the
sun.
With my hands I uncover my eyes—opening them slowly.
Like developer all those colors of
a photograph appear.
Here I am—king of the hill!.
The light gleams off the edges of
the windswept wheat
There’s a simple breeze—with an
insect mantra.
A pattern blows along the grasses
like brush marks.
I walk down and then up another
mound and notice
A small forest with pink ribbons
garnishing the trunks.
My soul lights up like the wheat,
Detaches and stagnates.
My youthfulness makes believe:
I decide the ribbons are
decorations to celebrate
These wild and beautiful
creatures.
It’s an earlier time too and that
loud sawing noise,
Just animal calls or two birds
matting.
The smoke is a native feeding his
children.
But then--
There’s a really big fucking sign
that’s being raised up
And connected to some fat steel
rod.
The pink ribbons were less
decoration
And more like dotted lines for gas
powered scissors.
And suddenly my senses-- which are
sharpened like whittled wood.
Carved from the smell of gasoline,
burning tree flesh and heated metal.
Absorbing like chlorophyll-- we’re
all just buried among the billboards,
The creatures of this space and my
progressive city street.
But hey now, hold on--too lofty I
say to myself and reel her back in,
The soul wasn’t meant to think and
after all, I’m one of the freaks, imagining!
A few sparks fly and I put my hard
hat back on.
With so many magazines and plenty
of pictures,
I decide I can’t be distraught,
it’s just progress.
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