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. |
|
© Jon Bohrn (2000) |