Doing Lines

Layover in O'Hare,
just a quick jaunt from
one plane to another.
No more than twenty minutes,
vast hordes of us do it
every day.

-

zephyr threw a glance
in our direction as
the branches chattered
their derision, drowning
the gentle sussurus of
breath and skin-against-skin,
but that brief notice
of our deviant bliss
was all the world cared
to muster, the enormity
of our shared sphere

-

Drunk enough I'm sweating rice
in this Harajuku hell.

-

The winter and the people
seem a little colder here,
lost as I am
in the midst of boulevards
and avenues named after fruits.
What will our descendants,
a thousand years from now,
think of us when they see
the products of our ubiquity,
the likeliest signs of us to remain,
our chalk hopscotch boards,
our crayoned walls, our
hand-outlined festive turkeys,
our ten-thousand-piece puzzles,
the closest things to art our housewives
will ever achieve?

(copyright a(scetic)verse, January 03, 2010)