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Frederick the last line in 'Wait for it' is perfect. You can retire now :) On 19 August 2010 15:42, Frederick Pollack <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > Wait For It > > > Rodents inherit, evolve, and > after many ages form > an image of us. But they are mild and communal > and think we were merely solitary and cruel. > They envy our power – > how could they not? There are so many > poisoned places, still – > and the sky remains so heavy > they seldom see the stars > they know they will never reach. > The sun will swell, the sea will boil. > It isn’t, however, science > but religion that tells them so, > as well as that the next life > endlessly edits this. > > > > > The Applicants > > > Some try to sell themselves. > Intuition, warmth, altruism – > whatever non-technical > brains we could presumably put to work. > Securing a place > in the tram at dawn, the cafeteria > at evening; a nod in the decaying > stairwell wherever we housed them. > But most go on and on about their lives. > A mother overcome by sky > a block from home, which afterwards > she never voluntarily left, but was otherwise > (they insist) fine. > A friend who phoned and shot himself, > tying up the line. > The years of drink that followed years > of nurturance. The psychological > effects of these causes. > Mostly they only describe the effects, > with the aim of convincing > us to let them in because > they’re interesting. > > I try to tell them that colorfulness > is no more guarantee > of acceptance than usefulness; > that they don’t want a visa to my country. > One breath of whose air > would turn them to stone, > with any stone’s or stone-segment’s > insistence on its own > specificity; > its time-dilation, its hopes reduced > to metamorphosis. > > They never listen. Gaze at the map > behind me, which brings to mind > cafés and plazas. It’s > the doll’s-house look of our borders, > bullied on every side > by states as large as novels … > I tell them it lies; that the land-mass of poetry > is wider than Siberia and not as kind. > > > > More Than Generous > > > One of our beloved billionaires > must be behind it, must have signed > the foundation behind it into being. > One of those men whose well-known features > remain somehow forever indistinct. > He tours the rooms of the upper floors, > the common room, the kitchen; > randomly touches drapes and fixtures; > appears unfocused. But his aides are paid, > as he says, to be tunnel-visioned, > and drag him out, and load him into his limo. > Guests start to arrive. > The first are what you’d expect: > the passive, needy, and rejected: > graying ponytails, polite abstracted tenors, > eyes fixed on imagined scenes > of compensatory violence > as if upon a missed receding train. > Yet those who, elsewhere, command > or at least shout, and are adored > or boast they are, appear also; > and though at first they straighten ties and glare, > they find themselves, or perhaps you find them, > crouching in hallways like > the other sort, whose weakness here is strength. > They peer around corners for enemies > but there are no enemies here. > Someone who could be, who is elsewhere empowered > by vicious faith, enters and strides > directly to a window, and looks out > on streets that might as well be walls, > and remains there. > Towards evening, women claim the common room. > They are generally older, > and know the light is unflattering, > but are past caring, though not perhaps past > the hope of a word. But people sleep alone here > and seldom exactly talk. For when two > approach each other, one recedes infinitely, > or swells and swells till, of two seekers, one > is crushed, the other bursts. > Only in deep night, which could be day > elsewhere, the billionaire – > he may be dreaming elsewhere but not here – > roams, like a devoted concierge, > the corridors and stairwells, scattering > on everyone a sort of dandruff. > It may be this that keeps them coming back > or staying, often for many years, > often till death. Upon which > the guests incuriously hobble forth, > bearing a friend through the surrounding dust. -- (David) "Dave no more" Joseph Bircumshaw "Every old house was scaffolding once/And workmen whistling" Website and A Chide's Alphabet http://www.staplednapkin.org.uk The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/david.bircumshaw twitter: http://twitter.com/bucketshave blog: http://groggydays.blogspot.com/