The subway car approaches, light

growing brighter in the tunnel.

Blackness is dismissed to unveil dirty,

industrial bars and the stench of Yankee waste.


Like dogs in a kennel, figures crowd doors,

man cuts off woman to ensure his

primary exit from the miserly tin can

of robotic figurines and unsettling silence.


Somewhere there is a bird singing over the

bodies of spirits taken for a nostalgic cause,

some mission of ghosts and violent desperation,

and the leader smiles from a distance


as small worlds crumple, bit by bit-

like ice caps do from gaseous fire.

As the melted drops turn to thunderous torrents,

so too will the world be engulfed by the


tsunami of yesterday- only uglier.

And the fat figures in the tin can won’t notice.

The only reality plays in earbuds. Mourning

sparrows are trumped by Beleibers.



The Liberated Polyglot

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