Koyaanisqatsi, Part II

Could the Indiana housewife do any differently?
toting along her art deco bag
and her fried chicken
as mate talks to teacher
and beauty refuses to come into focus
Men become wax figures with their tears
As Texas drag stars smile
licking their lips for presentation.
Lights go on and off
marking meetings and scandal
glowing red with the sunrise explosion
Lights rushing in lines
as the crow flies
beneath the buildings
and off into the distance
I sense destination
glowing green like Absinthe
as the moon crashes into the tower.
cars like dice roll past
promising anything
but snake eyes
they act like frames
window panes
doorways to the other side of town
but we’re crossing streets
in between taxis
and moving vans
under the astrology
of corporate warfare
traffic light patterns regulate
the rhythm
as some abandoned soul stops
simply to stare
as the rest glide down into the cave
revolving through doors that place them closer to an escape.
Are we machines
pacing meat and applying
labels as the repetition replaces
our ability to see?
Our white coats can’t protect us
from our own sins
entire cities run by the same
coming and going times of railway cars.
Our hands trained
mechanical tools
to fix machines or
operate a joystick
Even in leisure, we can’t find

peace.
Everything a transaction
when capitalism
runs
its course.
Making men make machines
Making men machines
Mechanically forcing them
into the ground below.
Yet we glide through life like a NASCAR race
trying to finish first
fastest
freest.
Shadows providing just enough
pause
to dull us.
Our lives are on every channel
in double
We are who they say
Unless we choose
unless we see
If we blow everything up
holding our hearts
Still we remain
to ensure our world stays the same
Day after day without peace
glowing pink
like a map of the plague
a computer grid
with infinite parts
small cities complete with parking lots
Even a cigarette can’t calm our nerves
When we’re working on the 12th floor,
Yet my grandfather’s brother makes me cry
reincarnated in anyone over 80.
The white male made homeless by time
While the homeless live on,
peering out of open windows
naked.
Can the nurse quiet my shaking hands?
Can these pills save me
from sanity?
Stocks crash
white receipts
covering the floor
falling from American Dreams.
We watch her take off, blinding us
with heat and majesty
her glow giving hope to hundreds
arching in the sky to explode
and plummet
leaving behind a stream
of memories
spiraling now
ignited still
in sadness.
This metal shell taking
shape
becoming another
legend
on the wall in black and white.