The Unfinish Line

This is PART TWO in my series: dis-PLACE-ME-nt: a poetic vision of place, self, and interdependence.

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He never looks behind fearful of shortened shadows stretching time. One step, one foot, one moment closer to the unfinish line. She travels sidewalks and paces roads. The unending labyrinth of unplanned lives twists cityscapes of gnarled pines. This hopeful meandering and unwatched history leaves marks and scars wandering offering no memory.

He is searching, lonely, loving, and weary too aware of others with their blank blinks peering.

What is this? This trinket of old stories halted.

It stops the meandering and the wandering scars unearthing underneath it a love from afar.

One. One. One. One. One step. One foot. One moment closer to the unfinish line.

Its five pointed points pluck plush melodies carrying tunes of vision of billions of cups of tea. The green of the leaves leaves bitterness from too long a steep reminiscent of steep mountainsides packed with short trees. It is here that she is misplaced among the peoples of lands displaced. It is here winds scatter the crescendoing clatter of corporate communism masquerading as democracy.

One. One. One. One. One step. One foot. One moment closer to the unfinish line.

The love from afar dully dims distance and demagoguery. He fears exposure with chest splayed wide: her lungs of moisture; his hearts rough hide -- lay bare, lay bare, lay bare -- like the forgotten ideals of symbols from yesteryear.

One. One. One. One. One step. One foot. One moment closer to the unfinish line.

A billion eyelids blink blank rhythms of the busiest business accelerating economy. He wants to flee their peering and jeering and corporateering. But everywhere she darts their blank blinks follow an arrhythmical accord.

How long must she meander and wander and quiver until he looks behind and finds history moored by the trappings of her traditions ignored?

One. One. One. One. One step. One foot. One moment closer to the unfinish line.

The love from afar meets the five pointed star errupting and convulsing a dissonant chord. The eyes blink shut. His neck unhinges. Her lungs of moisture thicken. The raw hided heart once so tough begins its process of actualization.

It is here among the crooked pines of cityscapes unending that the east and west of globalization meets the unending hunger of commodification.

She stops. He drops. Her chest explodes. He is exposed to the rounded chorus of exported meditation.

A single lid opens and shoots out its pupil riding the rhythms of its transfiguration.

One. One. One. One. One step. One foot. One moment closer to the unfinish line.

It is almost done. It is already here. Yet no one can see or hear or feel the thread of history stretched taught by shortened shadows from yesteryear.

The ideals gone. The symbols erased. All but them laid splayed like a sacrifice to corporate gods who's price yet paid leave nothing more than yesterdays of nothingness and emptiness and all the trees that will be razed.

One. One. One. One. One step. One foot. One moment closer to the unfinish line.

This hope we have in markets divine will drive our path towards desolate time of landscapes flattened by plummeting peaks and valleys bordered by Greek democracy leveled by capitalistic theocracy.

There we are with blank blinks closed and only one pupil exposed. It isn't our hero nor is it our Nero. It's simply an example of our collective acumen adding up to a sum of absolute zero.

One. One. One. One. One step. One foot. One moment closer to the unfinish line.

One. One. One. One. One step. One foot. One moment closer.

One. One. One. One. One step. One foot.

One. One. One. One. One step.

One. One. One. One.

the unfinish line

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