My Very Common Reprise

I am sad by nature,

or by condition,

as those made me

too weak,

too aware,

too natural

for the world of people.

 

Those roaming balls of noise

plucking and sucking

with millions of other pink and tan spheres of undue influence

in the perverted consumer romance.

 

A tachyon to escape them!

or a potent cone of lead,

 

or the decency of trees on slices of land ten degrees—

that is where I lose my last hope.

 

Between the crushing crash of people

in their obscenely public machine,

I can never make myself unseen.

 

But to be a tree on that slope,

knowing nothing but the air

and particles of light and green,

alive in the harmony of the chemical affair—

 

 

Done