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Archive for December 5th, 2011

like cicadas

By Ben Adams

the world spins like
a fractured disco ball
noise screeching through
the room
like a wounded jackal
like madness
and military footsteps pound the
floor
like falling pianos,
cannon fire.

cicadas like
well fed poets
fill the night
with static
and the crowd gathers
like molecules of oil,
a school of puffer fish
greasy and bloated
to the
feeding.

the world spins the same in
ivory towers & amp; football
fields, skyscrapers & auto
factories, insurance companies
and hippie communes, turning
and turning, like wheels
on a bent axle, unsteady on its feet
a drunken man.

while the rest cling to sanity with
gritted teeth, cigarettes
and six packs, hamburgers &
coffee, street maps, bus timetables
and shopping lists, scribbles
on the wall of a highway
rest stop:

anything but the
buzzing of the abstract masses like
cicadas

anything that might
shine clearly, like emblems
of
the truth.

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