“Our proper place in history”

i like to think of ancient cars
sparkplug shanks and rumble seats
primitive rusty engines rumbling
blow exhaust gas on my knees

i’d rather strum italian lutes
or bend a cello’s horse-hair bow
than run an amp to my guitar
and blow my tender eardrums out

i picture now our ancient house
where ivy climbs the garden bricks
while flags adorned with family crests
stir slightly in the country wind

from my ancient armchair i could see
a statue and a poet’s verse
in enduring austerity
decalcify modernity’s curse

i like the thought of(together)us
when art was honest, and love was sure
at our proper place in history
a century before our births

“Morning Commute”

how’s this for strange:
i find it inspiring
this convoy of craftsmen
drowsily commuting

their trucks piled high
with ladders and tools
white paint giving way
to rust and abuse

they climb through the fog
in the floor of the valley
and baptize their trucks
in the light of the morning

this legion of trucks
packed in a herd
rattle away
and cover the earth

i steer my sedan
through columns of white-
the bones in the spine
of civilized life