Matt's Manifesto © Jon Bohrn (2000)

Matt's Manifesto

The Renaissance men are aging now,

having survived Industrialization's Original Sin

and the Information Age flood;

the need for specialization

drives wrinkles of obsolescence

through their shriveling faces

that have seen too much popular culture,

folk wisdom, colloquialisms, and fads born of boredom

to have much patience left

for the exaltation of yet another

generation of humanity so frustratingly changing,

yet flawed as we've always been.

I've given up on love,

it's a game I've never figured out all the rules,

and I'm getting too old

to be any good at playing it anyway:

"That cranky old man,

who'd put up with someone like that?"

I hear them say way too clear,

though I've gotten good at normally ignoring

what I don't want to hear.

I'd thought of holding you in my arms

while you'd tell me of the cracks in your pavement,

the ones that were flowing together today,

and the ones you'd worry would become chasms,

the ones that could drive us apart,

both of us in love with the persons we imagined us to be,

neither of us realizing then,

that living's just walking,

the cracks coming and going under your feet

and all you can do is keep walking,

and sometimes there's music coming

from places you pass, but never look up to see.

The Renaissance man from upstairs

has packed up now,

he's got his "I'm done" look

draped over his shoulder against the cold,

he's out on the curb;

the New kids have come out to play

on the cracks of the sidewalk,

and from the next block

the encroaching ice-cream van crawls, bringing music.