Urban Mysticism

Urban mysticism,

a religion of glass.

I see myself in the mirror,

and behind my image the

team watches.

I have stolen air that was not mine,

evidence stored in my metallic

blood strong enough to build a

steel city.

What electronic theology is this,

the images flashing in the cameras?

There are detailed views

of the selves,

the only blind spot at

the left hand.

Competing ideology,

steel towers with winding

staircases up the shaft.

At the top,

a thin and hopeless soil,

a contented yesterday,

a bumblebee bumbling.


Men, minerals

fill my dialects.

Wearing orange,

drugs worldwide

sing their song.

Something about lemonade.

Young women of wisteria,



Xylem and phloem on two sides

Of the same love

thrown off

in autumn.

My body has lost something.

Bones are in my tongue of power

over the earth.