it is quiet
there is the soft-sound of air
moving through fan-blades
the quiet hum of its motor
turning
I hear a choir of monks singing the liturgy
it is nine o’clock in the morning
the hour is Terce
the coffee in my cup is warm
there is a coal burning in the ashtray
smoke drifting from the bright-end
of a marijuana cigarette…commercial hemp
woodpecker knocks on a tree
the sound comes through the window
with the cool, summer-morning-breeze
there are bulldozers on the street
moving piles of concrete
beep and whistle, a blaring horn
living in a construction zone
the air outside is cool
it is noisy in the building where I live
there are footsteps above me and the sound of furniture moving
of heavy things being scraped along the
floor
there is an ant walking up my wall
its large dark body moving robot-like
against the creamy-white paint
Indra, after the fall
the day is bright
the air filled with dust
bulldozer grading gravel
outside my window
…beep…beep…beep…
the sound of the alarm
it is warm in the apartment
I turned the cooling unit off last night
now the air is hot and stale
there is the stink of musty cloth
something sour in the room
there was a sudden silence
as the news channel buffered
and the steam shovel
outside my window…
…thirty feet away, stopped
pounding the building
stopped shaking
for a moment
there were no footsteps above me
only the soft noise of fans…and
the air conditioner humming
in the kitchen, blowing cool air
if the birds were speaking
I could not hear them
I could not hear them
in the sudden silence
we—all, just listening
together in the quiet
there is birdsong in the bright morning
and the beep…beep…beep of warning
there are trucks backing-up, with the
heavy-thudding-rattle of tracked vehicles
rolling
over soft earth
there a thousand shades of green unfurling
the new leaves of maples…oaks and elms
there are birds, trilling lauds at sunrise
there are piles of rubble in the street
the sun is warm and yellow
shadows leap from broken concrete
red-brick and steel-rail
pulled
from the street
robins pick through the broken road
looking for something
to eat
the steam-shovels and back-hoes
are silent on this Sunday morning
a monarch was crowned in England today
the enslavement of the people continues
they showed up by the hundreds of thousands
shouting,
god save the king, like a gaggle of fools
all-spun-up for a christening
bright sun and birdsong
the April light filtered through dingy windows
engines humming on the street
humans walking dogs, barking
conversations punctuated by
the laughter of strangers
dallying on the curb
a pale-gold line at the horizon
a blue-gray sky, soft
with brightening clouds
the bare maple, warming
in the spring sun
cracking green buds
in the morning
the sky is dirty gray, like
street slush in sunlight
a fine wet snow falls in a mist
a single brown leaf clings to the maple
in front of my window
stubborn-little-thing
wavering
in the icy breeze
a billowy field of blue and white
drifts above my head
the march sun is welcome
the walkways are wet
little streams of water flow
from ice packs
clinging to the shadows
rabbit tracks disappearing
in the melting snow
the ambulance pulls up across the street
lights and sirens…beep…beep…beep
window shades glow with the tint of blue and red
a gurney clatters on the sidewalk
a carriage for the dead
the sky is gray-bright with light
filtered through thin
cloud
it is pleasantly cold, with
a dampness to the air
traversing the cement-walk
shoeprints in the shining frost
Sid Gateaux, Zen Syndicate Intergalactic, People’s History Project, The
Skein of Days, Big Sugar Buddha, Observation, Reflection, February 7th
the maple’s face is covered in snow
outside my window
bare branches like twisted-fingers
in the freezing cold
it is cold
the furnace went out
it is eighteen degrees outside in
the city
there are poor people sleeping in
tents
beneath
newspapers
the morning sun is pale in a
silver sky
my fingers are stiff…but not from
typing
the sound of the space-heater fills
the room
pushing cold air through hot coils
the smell of electricity touches
everything
the red kettle comes to boil
its sharp whistle pierces the
white blanket of noise that
clings to
me
promising something warm to hold
hot coffee from the French press
pushing through
the chilly gloom
