And snapped inside
We rush to wait in a bright white,
Cleaner than linen, yellow and blue.
The orange fire melts in fluorescence, to less—
A taste of slogging boredom mummifies the tongue
Cult members, their needle-cylinders poised and pregnant
Hustle to haste, saunter to silence, footsteps pointing forward,
Not at me, dizzy, quiet, silent, silly, painfully painless, pink and blue,
Only ornamental, my own plight, not a plight to the ticket in my hand, 72,
Calm blue like everything, eyes closed, refusing to take interest in our affairs.
A sneeze, some blood, all the damp cloths on all the hideous wounds, or at my arm,
Its white exposed.
Live Like a Prism
Mirrors, raindrops and windows and water in glass:
Each a prism. From nothing comes color en masse:
The blue sweater of childhood in which you were kept
With security, love and a place for your head,
Your food cooked by your mother, and stories in bed.
Each necessity given, while you simply slept,
But then out you emerge in the red haze of life
And you blink and you bleat but it flurries along.
Life cascades all around you, your school years are gone,
You get one job, and others, and maybe a wife.
But whatever your lot, life just pushes you on.
Then green age and its mossy beard takes you back home.
Your life work has been done; your deeds lost in a tome—
Time to reap what you sowed 'til your chair finds you gone.
The bright life of a prism will have nothing to lack
But the colors of paint, combined, make only black.