Spiritus Mundi

Cold breath frosts my cheeks
as a voice shimmers from the void --

I hear this time
he has arrived.

Myopic computers smash
a thousand dreams and crumpled
dollars flutter through
canyons of ruined concrete.

Dust collects on glass,
the man churns out the daily toll --
steel laws grind life to pulp,
and blood simmers on the stove.

They say this time
he has arrived.

And in the snow there rests
the doll with no eyes,
speared through the forehead
by the reflection of the moon.

Dull echoes shutter muted laughter
as he scratches away
at victory.

Cabbage patch kids have come and gone,
whispered souls skipping lightly by --
the towers are lost,
and all
remains
the same.

I fear the time
has arrived.

Insert Life Here

The passion in living is gone, and all she gives is her touch. Words no longer work; I am lost, beyond my wildest dreams on the outside looking in and I've got nothing left to give. She is gone, I am gone, I feed off her and words are worthless now. Nothing lives in me. I am done. I am gone, I am dust and there is nothing unique left to say; it has all been done, been done already; I've seen it all and now my time is up. I go fleeting, fearful of awaking you: There is nothing I do to disturb. I am a child of the universe, afraid and unaware; unable to say just what I mean and stranded on this island I call my life. I am 250 feet above the ground, floating over an empty Babylon where no one knows my soul. I never even asked her what her name was.

The poem, the Clarissa in Two Parts -- it was true, you know. She took her place in my collection. That's not what I intended, not at all, but it has happened; gone and done. She has drifted off into the collective and I stand here, alone and still, breathing and praying for a glimpse of tomorrow -- and my heart is on fire. That is the truth, you know. I have no soul. I have eyes that look beyond the world, but there is nothing behind my eyes; just a computer that ticks away the moments, that measures out my life with grains of sand. Rushing towards an overwhelming future, one that has no bearing and no substance, one that is adrift in a future universe, and I am here, dragging my feet along, avoiding my life.

There is power in death, but more in life. In short, I am asleep.

Picture this place reeking of sawdust
and over the counter hunks of dewy meat
and diet coke in big sweaty red cups
and aprons laced with grease fingerprints

And picture this girl, taking photos
her ponytail askew and hair light and
gently brushing across her ears and
the tickle of breath and the little stain

by her left breast. It doesn't matter
when she says her name is Claudia,
from Ohio, because this name, this
word for the moment is lost between the two.

And it doesn't matter when her keds
slip across the stardust and it
doesn't matter when she touches
a shoulder in passing to get a better view.

Turning and the soul is brought like
fireworks to light and she is the one
and the sawdust shimmers about her feet
and she takes a step towards the end of time

And hearts slam to a halt across the room
and jealous wives stammer and accept all
in that moment and the words are still lost,
finding their way from mouth to ear,

trapped in the damp heat of this place,
coated ribs and chicken sandwiches,
dreaming turgid dreams tonight and the stomach
squeezes against the belt and she is here,

And no one is prepared to answer her so
she says again: "Is this seat taken?", swinging
her camera lightly over her back and
eyes trapped between desert sands and skin.

Muttering retreats and selfish glances and
everywhere the fingers drum on empty cups
and the hearts no longer pump their blood
and everywhere the girls have left their seats

and arrows flinging between lines of darkness
and cars crashing through the night and
magic whips the sawdust across the floor,
dusting empty plates and vacant chairs.