Now should cat stay
Here on this day
Might we not pray
The time has come
For mouse and cat
To mellow some
And end this spat
She shook a little with her distress
Speaking between tightened lips
Just barely containing a primal scream
I don’t mind the old-Earth tenements
Their utilitarian simplicity
But why does every other building
Have to look like the cover
Of an Arthur C. Clarke paperback
Couldn’t we come up with
A more interesting ‘future’
Than one dreamed up by hack illustrators
Over two centuries ago
Jinessa was just getting started
When she goes full rant
You can either cower and exit
Or saddle up and ride it for the eight count
I struggled to get a foot in the stirrup
As her exasperation rose
Oh my gawd
But it feels like someone
Stripped the life out of the colour wheel
I mean I get it
Proxima is not good old Sol
But why does it have to suck
All the juice out of orange
All the indigo out of the sky
All the crimson out of my hair!
She’d wanted the change
As much as I did
Coming here was her idea
It took most of our combined savings
And a serious cut in our lifestyle
To pull it off
Those tenements she mentioned
Were functional and clean
But hardly the standard she’d lived in
All her deeply privileged existence
And why does the atmosphere have to smell
Like fucking plum pudding
What is up with that
Even a hamburger tastes like
A sickeningly sweet yet
Gaggingly pungent holiday desert
Why doesn’t it explain all that
In the brochures
How was it kept out of the news
But life with Jinessa was a bit of a rodeo
Whether it was staged here on Proxima b
Or back on Earth
Truth is I love this most about her
Well not so much the ranting
In the company of worshipers
Some for God
Some for his house
But I think on it
And in the reflect I see
I prefer Love’s House
Which is any house
Where there’s you and me
Poverty
Inequity
Subjugation
Though I rather imagine such a society
Would have little interest
In erecting such grand monuments
Perhaps such a society
Would be too busy building
On its commitment to
Love
Compassion
Generosity
Bishops under Cardinals
Princes of the capital
Too all manner of celebrity
Still I prefer simplicity
Whose condition leaves them most to gain
While every pittance rendered unto greedy hand
Far too much where hope of sustenance is lain
Yet they, it ever seems, offer most without demand
It’s none of these I see today
By price of entry held at bay
Once was the time when pews were filled
By those allowed the least of say
But easily opened
From the inside
If you would let me in
Their darkest hour
To bed confined
For none the power
To stall the march of death’s decline
And so alone
Souls pass away
While not a hand
Is offered they
But latex glove
The touch at end of earthly stay
It was impossible to know
If her composure reflected disoriented shock
Or disdain for the physical danger
She had not yet entirely escaped
Until she let the hem fall down her thigh
Turned her attention toward her destination
Determined steps splashed a path
In a straight line through flotillas of shattered debris
Which seemed to have drifted in a pattern
Intended to allow her unobstructed exit
Books, papers, and various other shards of detritus
Drifted in the eddies of unsettled water
Which she cleaved like a great ship through choppy seas
In countenance and action
She exhibited a formidable and resolute presence
Like the war film fantasy of the battalion commander
Who leads his troops through a barrage
Of bullets and shrapnel
Upright, undeterred, intent not on the enemy
But the objective beyond their defensive lines
The prophet, Sullivan, preached
Writing the gospel of
Purpose Informs Art
On landscapes and city streets
Ah, sighs Calatrava
And erects his Mona Lisa smile
Its contrarian pulse
The blood flowing through Valencia’s veins
As form takes flight
With function on its wing
I revel in dreamy whimsy
With purpose in the wake
Pix to Words 