A spire pierces the azure sky. Behind the spire, factory smokestacks spew their morning offerings. The air smells of battle. Skulls spill from a catacomb dungeon. Holy Ground. Yesterday, the worship mob heaped tithings into Offertory baskets while the choir sang. Coin and paper-money harvests for god.
The promenade leading to town is framed by orange benches. Nobody sits. Workers move toward the plaza as if pulled by strings. Puppets? Poplars along the walkway Holy green with shadows. A couple marching hunched keep eyes fixed to the ground. Boots echo off hard surfaces of statue and stone. Women shove strollers over the cobbles. September pigeons peck at cracks.
Once I was an Altar boy. Girls flirted after Mass, long before war delivered me to the front line like a fresh loaf of pulla. As a soldier I dreamt of fame, of having my bronzed image erected on an ivory pedestal. Now I exist between failures, watching life pass beneath me from an iron balcony.
Ocean in a Fishbowl
Strolling along the beach with my dog,
I came upon a goldfish in its bowl,
floating along the edge of the ocean.
Someone had obviously taken pity on their imprisoned pet
and granted it a taste of unbound freedom,
deluding the little fish into thinking it was swimming without restraint.
At once it struck me...
This is what my own existence has been all along;
all this time convinced I was swimming freely in the ocean of life;
in actuality, stuck in an impermeable cell, carried along by the currents.
The world embraces me in all its sublime radiance,
sustaining my delusion that I, too, am a vital part of it all.
Yet the rich waters of life cannot penetrate the bowl;
nor can I escape the hermetic confinement.
