The City (Draft 1)

I

It rises over the desert

and spreads itself over the mountains.

It beams down softly across the

encroaching sprawl.

Reaching water and sand,

cold waves crash into piers

as adventurous bodies

dive into natures embrace.

Towering figures framed

against the mountains,

pillars of ingenuity

reflecting rays cast

upon glass and steel.

Arteries begin pumping

Mechanized platelets

from North to South,

East to West.

By the entrance to Poseidon’s realm

the beasts stand

craning their sinuous

mechanized necks

as the relic of a sentinel

stands watch over a task

long since relinquished.

II

Alive and breathing,

life engages its patrons.

Peering through windows

The box chatters on as

beauties recline into

the folds of their suburban decadence.

Outside,

they toil in pairs,

The harsh sound of blades and

arboreal amputations

the only disturbances

in such placid places.

A close distance away

Black and Whites

pull up screeching,

rubber gripping,

squealing to a halt.

Freudian compensation is drawn

and thrust out.

Guilty?

Why not?

Slugs puncture hungry

vitals shocked by sudden

scarlet spurts.

The soft sound of

meat hitting asphalt.

III

Like a body

splayed out over sheets,

one hand reaches for snow capped peaks

as the other dips its fingers

into hot desert sand,

toes curl in the cool sea,

Arteries,

Veins and Capillaries

cast in concrete

keep brightly lit

blood cells

in a dead rhythm

on the road.

They are endless.

Drawing us everywhere

& nowhere at once.

IV

The dream factory

draws them in

to this strange place with

a song in their hearts,

a role they were born to play,

their words meant to be

immortalized on papyrus.

They struggle,

they thrive.

Lucky breaks and losing streaks

mar lives in almost equal measure.

It will be a great story later on

when the camera eyes

capture the ineffable essence

you’ll one day lose

to hubris and indulgence.

Writ upon the hills

their mantra

stands hollow backed .

It keeps them coming.

It keeps them coming.

V

Staring at faces like flowers

in a bed,

a kaleidoscope

of features

and tones.

An immigrant tapestry

in bloom.

Joy and Hardship

told through lines drawn

into skin.

Tongues retain their native lilt.

Aren’t we all

children of far off places?

Stand at the waters edge,

look back to all

the flowers in the sand.