SouthPark has changed; the mall
is marble now, or so they would have us believe
it has emptied itself from it's chrysalis
as a huge polished granite butterfly
its wings spread uselessly
too heavy to lift
muchless beat the air
into flight. A beautiful polished granite marble and glass
Saint George's cross. Like something petrified
on the ocean floor, scrubbed clean
by ages of tides. This is the importance
of history
The granite tiles beneath my feet set in state-of-the-art grout
are one quarter of an inch thick, ten by ten
long and wide; details are important, thes tiles
ring beneath my feet with illusory substance. Is it the
death
of my nihilism? Is it the last gasp of a cynical mind
no. The sun moves from east to west, the weather
from west to east. The evolution
of the mall moves from smaller to grander. What you cannot
control
you live with.
And every morning there are the Walkers. In droves of dozens
they escape the envelopes of their homes, enclaves
heated with indifference, warmed by idle talk
they mount shiny cars
I wonder if they travel alone or in packs----it is hard to tell
but it is certain that they seal themselves
in their sheet-steel beasts.
I walk the tiles when I have to
to work, sometimes to eat, when there's a book I need, when
I want a cup of coffee; I do not ignore, I do not
broadcast my disgust
at the wretched excess
of this shiny place
I am on record as being in favor of excess
James MacFarlane Williams