Poezja

Tornados form in the distance,   
products of wild imaginations   
on rolling highways.  Wisps   
of nipples barely swirling   
from green clouds turning above   
God´s country in opposite directions   
with unspoken understanding that   
the plains are there only in preparation   
for gloomy sunlit Kansas desert doldrums,   
and the people on this tapestry blanket   
only do his bidding here.   
  
Screaming yelling kicking   
in the absolute silence of corn fields   
connected by straight lines dashed arbitrarily   
in the great empty vastness.   
Interstates, highways, country roads   
marked with letters numbers   
and towns unmoved with the strings   
of quaint dignified sleep   
with something lost in the madness   
of cities who have failed   
in their search for the authentic.   
  
Symbols, important things.   
Eagles in the sky encompassing everything,   
sometimes lifeless on the asphalt.   
Vultures salivating above rotted corpses,   
floating over South Dakota waterfalls   
that have always been there.   
The moons burning in infinite space   
guiding us in the darkness   
from Des Moines to Eldon.   
Harvest moons eating the stars   
like red giants,   
high blue ones atop   
the otherwise unknown   
in search of the spontaneous   
betrayed by great horizons.   
Small wood houses standing upright   
against dismissive winds running away east   
past the decay of another time eyeballing   
underneath shallow skin with gothic dignity.   
  
Deep into the night the world turns slowly,   
change is just euphemism for how quickly   
tommmorrow chooses to forget and ignore.