A car the color of the sunset disappears
around a corner, the sky recalls a long-ago
metropolis, and films of rain are shining
on the concrete and the bitumen,
the bushes and the trees.
I think about what I’ve done and
what I will, and wonder where’s the sun?
Am I any closer to it?
I cannot write a sentence and be there,
clean my teeth and catch a golden solar flight.
And if I could, would fastidious belief,
lack of pride or the reverse,
affect my orbital approach?
Am I sinful to an extreme,
and only microscopically virtuous?
Is the sea of sophistry, the instant guides
to good behavior, no more than a thread
of ionized particles in the solar wind?
My voice grates like fingernails
on a blackboard, and in the limit cycle
of my existence, I’m envious
of the insects adrift on leaves
in mountain streams.
Now the clouds have cleared,
and I hear the songs of the cicadas.
Their question is the same.
The Purpose of Reality illustrated short story and poetry collections from Meerkat Press, with pretty fair reviews from Publishers Weekly, Goodreads, Aurealis, and the like, now available on Amazon and at other outlets, click for details including reviews.
Where is the sun? (no AI in the creation of this art video). 8K original image=4 UHD screens. Evolved by my software that seeks unimagined realms. 8K original image = 4 UHD screens, from the ultracubist engine. Art and poetry also on Instagram.