Dirt museum

The valley here

was once the pantry

to the world.

Today the remnants

of its past

are lonely silos

standing silent sentinel

over the empty acreage

of forgotten farmland.

Here and there

fields still function

but mostly some urban warriors

working to reinvent

the archaic.

Somewhere East

lie the factory farms,

their efficiency


and unromantic.

Like accusing fingers,

raised to the sky,

these unnumbered silos

force a remembering

that shames us.



Fucking pedestrians,

they follow no rules,

face no penalties,

observe no form

of common sense…

act with impunity,


have the law either

on their side,


simply turning a blind eye.

They are like Gods on the streets.

I envy them.

If I drove as they walk

I would surely have murdered

thousands by now.

Urban hermit

The homeless guy and I
both know the rhythm of the lights
and cross the street in unison
before the sign can change.

He knows far better, though,
the truth of the city’s nuance.
He will pull the streets upon himself to sleep
while I must suffer with a mere blanket.

His clothes match the nature of his world
while my shorts and work-wear are anathema.
He sups on the caviar of the trash can
while I suffer the plethora of my fridge.

These skyscraper canyons
and glass-clad metal forrests
are his domain; he is an urban settler
and I have trespassed on his claim.

The light runs its cycle again
and the concrete river carries him
down currents only he can navigate
as I shelter on the shore
of the wilds he commands.