Archive
04/04/12 - (1)
A Sunday-Afternoon Row
In every direction up and upward, high, higher, and highest, All my eyes see are the colossal heights of Gotham — Monolithic steeples, obelisks, turrets, towers, Vertical castles under never-ceasing construction, With steel and iron girders being bolted, welded, by mere men, In tethered-togetherness, against every weather And, hopefully, humankind's next maniacal malevolence.
Yet, in one seething expectoration of history's spitting cobra, I see two magnificent colossal edifices collapsing, Come numbingly tumble-fumble-stumble-rumbling down, In an arm-and-a-leg-ageddon so ubiquitously iniquitous, An entire planet of aghast caught-in-the-crossfire bystanders Can do nothing but gasp, choke, in throat-moaning silence, Scream, bleed and die vicariously, without ever leaving their TV's.
But this is 2012, three afternoons before Passover, five from Easter. I reassure myself that such apocalypses are mythical, apocryphal, The rubble-stuff plaguesayers prophesied for pharaohs, The bowls of molten rivers flowing through Revelation, Not post-Hiroshima realities the next terrorist might unleash. Indeed, this is the innocence my mind wears into Central Park, As my love and I head toward the boathouse, for a Sunday row.
04/04/12 - (1)
|
|||
|
|||
