The oligarchy has fallen,
the last noisy potentate,
overdosed on the drug of unlimited power,
shudders alone in his monumental grave
atop the shards of previous civilizations,
the earth, long ago, inherited by the meek.
I take my place, tin cup in hand
amongst street corner philosophers,
those who have watched the collapse
from the periphery,
to which they had been banished,
shielded by their weakness and their unimportance,
while the strong and the ambitious
clamored for ascendency
and tumbled.
Those remainders and reminders,
decliners and defilers,
wandering jungle paths and crumbling highways,
picking fruit for pennies from the cultivated rows
of those who deem themselves superior,
or leaning on bus stop walls, drinking beer
pilfered from the excesses of the privileged,
going nowhere
at home within their own skin.
The unaspiring, the unrepentant, the untouched,
the unwanted, the adjudged, the invisible,
making their way,
in the shadows of skyscrapers
and along irrigation ditches,
without possession or want,
mere fragments, invalids, broken dishes,
discards from the rubble of time,
open to the wind and rain and stars,
tended by angels,
in the last resort,
the forgotten, the blessed,
degenerates and sadhus together,
breathing the breath of the divine.
7/26/16
Great poetry, Russell ! Maybe I’ll be well enough for Mexico this winter….
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Thanks Charley. Hope to see you then.
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