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. -- Pizo.

An elegy

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 the past. 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 and on cars 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 my name, a gecko looks out from a hidden view -- ninety stories up the people quite so very small, too. Visions of tales lost in times forgotten -- judgement's last call. The shriek of shrike when at last a whiporwill -- sweetly, shrill, garishly cawish the symphony up here. But cars must start, people dressed so fine, scrubbers, 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 Now 2 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. Oh-graht, Grind! 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, warming, 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, up and up and up. So view the world, hear THOR's hammer in Chicago City True! But. Never forget the Where and the Who 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) --30-- Back to the poetry page Return to the m-a-c page Return to the HOME page

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