The buzz and the rumble

The fragments of peace and blunder that make up our lives—
it’s all just to pass the time. All of it.
Look up and you’ll see the heavens seem so far away.
Peace in strangeness, peace in strangers.
The heavens seem so far away.

We’re all just waiting,
waiting for what—
for our lives to end?
for the heavens to move closer,
the sky to come crashing down?

We’re waiting to see our futures
become something—
more than they are.
Moonrise after moonrise—
just trying to fill our four walls
with grand heirlooms,
to show we’ve come from SOMEWHERE,
we are made up of SOMETHING,
we have meant something to SOMEONE.

This dark wooden rocking chair,
that turquoise fragile lamp
of your grandmothers—
you remember her bony hands,
her fierce blue eyes that could still look warm…
Sadness, not even Sunday night
oldtime Bluegrass from the radio can fix.

But tonight it was just background noise.
The buzz. The rumble. The never ending beat.

Do you know that Banksy piece, the graffiti
stencil of a young girl
placed next to a gas station in L.A.—if you don’t
know it look it up—
she’s got this big old watering can
and she’s watering an old TV antenna that’s
growing out of the earth, leaves and all.
She’s watering—causing to grow—distraction.
Background noise.
The buzz, rumble and never ending.

Beat.

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