Lemming phones, enormous watches,
Purple hair, persimmon skin.
Cars the size of pocket monsters,
Silent morning din.
This early rolling march again,
Hurried, tight, but right on time.
Loaded inward, empty out,
Soothing voice, synthetic chime.
Awake too soon, a moment more
To dream afoot, of metal seas
Till rising sun and hearty song
Hancho gods appease.
Choking in the meeting room,
Air too thick to see.
Assaulted by the noodle juice
And someone's cup of tea.
But the pilot still sits in the left seat,
Same satellites tell where she flies
And the sun and the moon, out of phase, but in tune
Set the poet aflame as they rise.
Electric soldiers standing steel
In city color, stepping light
Through dinner's field, pinned between
Hot jaws of asphalt, dark and tight.
So many here, so concrete set,
So little ground, so much to do.
A gram of rest this afternoon,
But that's midnight to you.
And the wood is as hard and as heavy
Same addresses weaving the net.
And the fisher and wright, on the river of night,
Dream of reason and sleep of forget.
The daily place, fresh evening meal
Swims behind the paper panes.
Fire crashing through my nose,
John rice-corn in my veins,
Till day explodes with fat man head
Red poison snake and burning chrome.
Synchro-adverts in the tunnel
Sleeping me back home.
And the pilot still sits in the left seat,
Same satellites tell when and where
And the moon and the sun, now tomorrow is done,
Rock the daytime to night in the air.
Copyright © 2000, Kevin R. Boyce