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            The Outlook

I have a good view from here; it’s really quite amazing and grim.

I’m out on the balcony—a ways down—and can really see it all.

The city bustling; the forest rustling; what are those?

In the city, crowded but filled with a brilliance of culture,

Little stands, a market, gorgeous foreign fruits sold by the old women,

Mostly in dark colors and wearing stringy buns loosely tied.

Men selling shot glasses, fake sunglasses and purses, wallets, jackets,

Other leather and goofy stuff on the wobble-stone street,

Shouting with a smile, or a grimace, in an “I have to” way,

“Special price for you my friend, yes yes, juz for you”

The sun is hiding and popping-in in blue gaps, just for that moment,

It sprays gold onto the terraces where the oldfolks drink wine

And color mutterings in my ear I don’t know how to make out,

Like any piece of art.

Young women in the mid-twenties try to flaunt tight asses and bosoms bouncing

Always catch the mopeder’s eye and he, maybe she, toots a horn.

A couple of blacks get touchy with each other holding to a bench and to hips;

Mostly people notice but pretend not to notice mostly, and glance in peripheral

Winks thinking of what they want done with their pockets and fitters.

Streets are malls filled with young people wanting to look O-so-good in some form Of a Robin Hood styled boot, even the American girls back home are into it.

I appreciate how the un-appreciated music flows from the genius fingers of the Saxophonists, guitarists, accordionists, tuba-men, and the steel drummers that walk Up after a few songs and hold out a worn corduroy hat panhandling through life

Just to be able to handle this life.  Bums and Romanian vagrants beg on corners,

Sometimes with a few stray dogs asking for anything in return for a gapped smile.

The clothes always beaten, grayed by concrete and dust seem to melt right

Into the stone, on which they lay, sit and live.  The flies are buzzing close to the Garbage. I help when I can because I am living by charity too, but not as beat.

  Big chrome spyglasses post near the railing, only a euro a minute,

And my red figure twisted in a melting blur of shiny gray, I float upside-down.

I step to the right away from her and watch me bubble. 

                                              I can see the green too, lush, vapid of humans.

Leaves, each a character, gently ride bagged winds blowing from that strange Source

Who never really shows itself.  Trees trees trees always crawling on the fringe so

Beat by hands, because? A little red fox stalks and knows his way around so well

Between the trunks that our grandfathers feed, we are diffusion, but contained

While thought still flies from a secret voice; it endeavors to whisper its own slimed Soil.  Such loneliness can be felt and almost palpable by those intimate

Forces that forge the innerness.  The woods, I know, certainly have to look out on us

And wonder: what is this bustle, and why?  But they just don’t care, and are ready to Die in the present where only anything can “To be or not to be”.  The woods, naked As the Universe, just live now; growing or falling, they don’t need to achieve.

The Outlook:  True Meaning can never be known through anything such as eyes.