City of burnt grass and black limousines.
City of nudes and spider lilies,
where the grass stands up even though it is on fire,
whistling a harvest tune.
By the railway lines,
entropy rules: jagged weeds
and mystery melons scramble for space,
riddling the rails,
disguising the sleepers with their fantastic tendrils.
Like a smoker's signal,
brave and futile.
Trains slice these ribbons into tendons,
timetabling history, scattering seeds,
accelerating some abstract chaos.
Trampled soccer balls like snakeskin or leather on the shining road.
Dressed as inspectors,
we climb the stainless steel stairs,
pass the plastic clinic and the coffee mall,
then enter the machine room.
Here, the rumble of traffic is merely a shiver in your bowels,
barely shaking the keys.
Predicting story arcs is what it's all about.
Prisoners,
good deeds and friendships betrayed.
The studios will be eating out of our hands.
Privately,
we model alternate scenarios:
the prisoner escapes;
the can of boiled beef falls from the adjutant's hand;
a friendship is consummated in a bloody latrine scene.
Here,
the streets are viewed as if through
the screenshots of an amateur photographer:
the perspectives slightly skewed,
casting one's eye off balance.
Jets scramble overhead, but no one notices.
The flags of a thousand federations
burst into the blue sky,
unfurling like false spring!
The sound of trickling water consumes
bus drivers and cart pullers alike.
Insanity is okay,
although mistakes are sometimes made.
Usually, these thoughts disappear.
Slowly, a city comes to know itself by
the bend of a river,
the argument of a steel canal.
Behind us, mountains;
ahead,
cartwheels of conversation,
opening.
