An Elegy for the Constructor
The Author's Preface
In these writings, I am always
amazed that I have anything new to
say at all. However, I think it is
like that with life in general. If we
can only "step outside of our literal selves"
then we find that there is so much more to
us than we suppose.
Also, in the same way, it is difficult
to keep from getting jaundiced and angry
about our lives, fate, and the injustices
in the world. I think, though that if for
a brief time we realize that, it is because
we *are* so sensitive, that we are so easily
injured. And one is given so many (unfortuntely
far too many) examples of people around us who
brusque their way past us, as if we don't matter.
I supposed, in that sense, then, I give words
for you that we all feel in such cases. In a
way, it reminds me of the idea of the "fool".
In many mythologies around the world (on many
worlds, in many, many universes), the fool is
a person who as ACTUALLY seen the truth and it
has driven them mad. There is a line in the
tau about it: You speak about the tau, and
are thought foolish by those that think themselves
wise. It could not be so unless it IS the tau.
It would not be the tau, if it were otherwise.
These, are the beauties that we must see
around us, and help those how brusque their
ways not just past us, but past life itself
-- to help them to see. Do not expect any
thanks (if anything, they will curse you for
trying to hold them up from their own rendesvous
with oblivion (actual oblivion, if we can
imagine such a thing) and be even more derisive
and demeaning towards you/me/us). But, for
what it is worth, my thoughts go with you,
and always be upon the path of peace.
Post Modernist Note ...
From a feminist point of view, I realize
that I entirely use the "man", the "he",
and all too rarely in my writing use the
"womin" or the "she". However, this poem
is about a workman (there's that word again)
who fell to his death while working on a
building. I suppose, that, a "pure" feminist
would say that no womin would be so stupid
to do such. But, there in (come again the
15 minutes of glory!), lies a great opportunity
to be the first WOMAN construction worker to fall
to her death. In fact, I suspect, that this
has already happened, or is yet to happen in
Thank you for your patience.
Also, please note...
The part of the whipperwill will be played
tonight by a mockingbird, as the whipperwill
is out sick, nothing serious, just a touch of
pollution in the lungs.
We now present the poem.
Shattered visiage of construction lies.
steel crane, cold aginst the sky's
workmen, women, (helpers too),
scurry, hurry, here and there.
A new year,
a new century,
a new number's dawn
Ideas, Markets! Lunches taken and missed ...
poets sit in
seeking inspiration --
Fleeting thoughts or world's domain?
Quiet emissaries of commerce
no lingering doubts
quiet conversations of wonder
time within and without
Players all in life's cosmic game.
who the pieces are, the pawns:
What *is* their name?
Now: That IS the game.
Crow's caw, laughing at such foolishness.
On the same road we all must go,
travelers, see-ers of sights
sacred and profane.
And as I quietly write, the crows call
a gecko looks out from
a hidden view -- ninety stories up
the people quite so very small,
Visions of tales lost
in times forgotten -- judgement's
The shriek of shrike
a whiporwill -- sweetly, shrill,
the symphony up here.
But cars must start, people dressed so fine,
cleaners, all to make it shine.
Well wishers apparent,
didsain hidden by custom.
The engines of industry all pretend not
to hear -- the fire siren's wail -- ambulences
TEN-FOUR, COPY ROGER
60 over 40, TEE PEE ESS ELL EYE.
The hot sun beats down,
calmness again reigns
within and without.
Without bidding from us.
Somewhere children run,
play, and tumble,
some where an old poet sits atop
an infinitely tall building
dreaming of a better world.
Stark, steel crane clanked to and fro
to build a building in which many
impor-tant-ly important persons will go.
Never hearing the workmen who fell, the
families that cry -- just so they could hold
their boardroom meetings in this Brahmin sky.
A plane's rumble over head,
Words of friendship given to and fro.
And to this the
crow and grackle and whipporwhill add their
two cents to the open air cafe in the sky.
Cold air slightly cooling,
sun rays beaming,
heating still the air...
The traffic far below.
gent-list zephir glides
paper napkins off into space
like baby's breath
in roses's red contrast
they depart upon an unknown journey.
Cold, steel crane a coffin carries,
So view the world, hear THOR's hammer in
Chicago City True!
Never forget the Where
of men, and women, and helpers too
that stand against the cold to bring
tall buildings to you.
Date: 2001/Jan/32 or 2001/Feb/01
(take your pick)
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