Too many sirens

After tales of brave Odysseus passed, too many sirens 
still blown down Central to pass Magnolia, silent again 
at Rosalind. Some poorboy called the mayor before I 
bought some wax to plug the only way I hear. Heard 
one sad guy after the blues had swept the clean streets 
clean again: he was going to shit in a cup and leave it 
as his legacy, on the street. On a one-way street, one 
of the sirens, piercing loudly, said no way, go south.

Just when you thought it mattered

Nothing, she said, could be further from the truth.

The orange of the sunset owes you nothing
despite your claim to fresh air and heartache.

Once when you dreamt of a glorious future
the pointed hands seemed frozen in time,
starkly arced and black on a face gone pale
in anticipation of things to arise and come.

The ticking resumed but there was no reward,
only the rhythmic reminder of time passing
and the sinking sense that growth had ceased.

Nothing, she said, could be further from the truth.

Too many grails

So many wooden cups with long stems and chipped lips
scattered where the trees are green. Each cup real, each
cup a mirage where the trees are purple, each a mirage
where the trees are green, each cup real where the trees
are purple. Shadows dance near the dumpster and the
shadows play within the mist. Shadows are still and the
dumpster dances with the branches of that purple tree,
with the branches of that green. So many wooden cups
with chipped lips and long stems from which to drink.