10-18-91 Room

The act to turn a chair 180 degrees
From introspection to looking out over
Foreign sights
Sitting on a gilded pedestal
Not of my choice,of my being
My platform so elaborate in appearance
Built of the same mortar,water,sweat
Fear,imperfect as are all things man touches,
As the buildings that surround me
As they are not the same washed out pale pink
Of another place,corporate choice,dream,
Gray government pourings for the many
So new the ribbon not yet cut
Facilities and furniture missing as the scrambling,
Hammering,how many hammers,hail on a glass roof,
Storm front with a lunch break,rhythm
Never recorded,what are they doing,hurrying
Can not tell them from a knock at the door
Interrupting,apology,forgotten accessories

I smile inside and out

And I,American,visitor,intruder,looking out and in,
See the people pointing,smiling,wondering why
A massive different thing with bright multicolored legs
Would sit in a backwards chair,watching them work
That there must be something,anything
For me to do,be,elsewhere
And I then agree

As the wind blows the new flags around
As the fire’s tail turns white from black
Bamboo scattered beneath my lazy feet
Clean and waiting for an assignment
The pipe cutters and muck trawlers go on
They commune with the Earth as I spin
Inside my head
I wish I knew what they were doing
Will I ask,will I explore…no,

Not today,

I feel as if I am by the river
Dirty,wet,wrong,sucked into the mud
Trapped,frozen from action,not by politics,
Or pain,illness or thought
But by the subtle jailer these people know
That we all know,all of my selves know
Who is choice
Where man is divine for a second,deserving or not,
And the path remains the same
The muddy footprints always the same.