Will this ride never end?
Bending, the boulevard is a constant aquarium
raining traffic lights, caged store windows,
steps empty of people & that all
presses against moments.
My voice cannot speak,
Of these stolen hours.
They are owned,
By the british media.
I was wholly determined to go home and expunge the whole
of what I had ever composed that day, that week, that whole
crazy year of my life,
You suddenly realize he isn’t the Buddha.
He’s an impostor. But good at it:
relaxed, full lotus
without strain,
We have here to speak
of stone benches,
hard and uncomfortable,
mostly antiquarian,
Picture of a black boy drowning
on the seat cushion, Latin prayers
for deliverance, revival.
In the beginning was lake
salt on our skin, wind deep
breathing with us in grass.
