When Worlds Collide

Poem for Poet Daniel Rodman Walker

Planets collide at the whim
Of even the lesser gods

The working class gods
The young and obnoxious gods
Stalking about in their cheap suits
Fondling soft pack cigarettes
Preening and boasting
No better than
Peacocks at a lawn party

And like all gods
They have an appetite for destruction
Petty and proud
Resentful
Jealous
Frequently vicious
They compete without end

To kill an eternity of time
They toy with this shabby astral plane
With its puny suns
Its dingy celestial bodies
While out there on the dark far fringes
The voracious black holes yawn

By skill
Or by will
By cheat
Or by chance

The gods angle for control
As each planet
In its fashion
Spins its last and vanishes
to the jeers and laughter
of these dime store deities
These two bit tyrants

Each orb, in its turn
Falls under their jealous eye
Each in its turn must meet
Its singular catastrophe
Its careless annihilation

Once again
The gods slouch
Towards a new Eden
To reenact creation

Once again the last black planet
Aligns with the last black hole

🎱
Corner pocket

When Worlds Don’t Collide

The tethered dog owns a passionate hatred for the foraging squirrel

She bridles at the restraint
Her claws tearing at the dirt
As the jealous eye of her devotion
Climbs the tree in further pursuit

At her feet
Sparrows bounce and skip about

They peck at the ground
Chatter in low branches
And loft to the sky

Night Fall

10 floors down
A girl crossing the square
Calls out a cheerful tipsy
“G’night !!!”

In the dry fountain
A bronze water nymph
Bares a single small breast
through her careless gown
Unselfconscious

Insulated in shadow
A homeless man has encamped around a park bench
His chest, a metronome of coughing
As though his spark is missing on one cylinder

From black trees and lampposts
Holiday lights hang
Celebrating to no one

10 floors up
In a gracious pre-war
A pensioner stands looking down

The paned window yawns wide
Exhaling heat into cold

The air settles heavy
On New Year’s night

Distant sirens chirp and howl
without harmony

An ersatz constellation of scattered city lights
Reflects deep in the black glass of an office tower
Giving the illusion of depth

10 stories down

To the pavement

Gutters drink
Open throated
The dirty water of
A dirty quarter

Brick pipe storm drains connect the streets to the river
Water joins water
Sliding under derelict barges, tethered to buoys,
Turning clockwise on the heaving pulse of ebb and flood

A bus approaches slow
Empty but for the driver
Pushing hollow air before it
Splashes erupting through the rippling mirror light of puddles

Puddles filling potholes
Potholes like lunar craters
The moon so bright and sterile
A crummy satellite covered in potholes
Stealing light

The bus makes its turn and recedes
The soft sound of its gas motor joins with the sound of accelerating rain

Back in the park
Squirrels sleep
While rats forage for missed peanuts
Left out by tourists and children

The last of the taxicabs idles
in front of the old Paradigm Hotel
Waiting out the quiet

A New Year’s rain
Washes away nothing