Trees Swaying and Swishing Like Plastic Glasses

Unpublished pieces

Living tissue undulating like burning flags from a winter sky. 
Trees swaying and swishing like plastic glasses melting 
in a summer sky. 

You and I are drinking lemonaide out of chilled glasses; 
drops of moisture angling insistently down our arms. 

We are as magic as we care to be, as fragile as 
the twisting sandstorms that plague 
the ever-present desert scene 
of the twilight glows of other signs. 

I wonder aloud if all our images will fall 
away as we grow and confront the 
silver rings we have caused to 
blend with our filth. 

You comment on the typical day, 
the never changing atmosphere 
from which you feel you need 
to dwell. 

What is left for us? 

We have already begun to feel 
with different cell phones 
rushed like glue upon our ears. 

We know the same stories, so we find 
ourselves sharing in the delusions 
we once believed. 

The flicking of the light switch only 
gives us the option of on or off. 

So with this awareness we perceive 
only the dimness of the hourly world 
we have come to accept as important. 

Nothing is really important, I realize. 
Everything is shambled methods used 
to help in my survival. 

Have I used you? 
Have you used me? 

My suspicion would be that all 
the one way only signs 
are never enough to stop 
the dying of our pleasure.

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