When the world is just a playground

10/24/11 Abu Dhabi

Arab fall
The turns outside my window smell of money
How the work finds the the holders of the purse
Wherever it’s held

Covered features and firewalls
The moral fibers cover her sad smile
And her swollen middle
Just a different cloth a world away

The gardens in the desert
Sprouting concrete and glass, fertilized by gold
And the need to leave a lasting mark
In the swirling sand

Gold vested concierge
Cuts the line
The lesson of money talks but has no queue or signage
The words foreign for those in line with me

Far across the sky
Distance and the alien pry words from my jaw, my diminished chest
The silence leads to talking with the poet and his supernatural heart
He threatens to speak the incantations, the sputtered, the hard heard word
Heart heard, unfiltered, unafraid

We go where the work is, money is, love is, peace is
Those who don’t turn from the broken tap live empty
Drying fuel for engines who still can run
Farther, new money, new roads, old ways

Poets mutter and few listen, understanding just an option
For both, writer and listener
The act of striking out for answers reaps return,
The attempt to listen brings quiet, where true clues lie.