Loss of Access
Rumor has it there are places
even emails cannot go,
strange lands where voicemails
hang in limbo and snail-mail
appears rarely slash barely.
High on a hill ringed with discarded cups
and paper bags that blend into the scenery,
I look out over scrub pines, further out
to waves that ripple paint chip gray.
This far north, the zenith fails to blue.
There’s nothing to lift a perspective.
One gazes at what’s underfoot, ahead
a purple thistle that looks almost chatty,
a water-stained copy of Yeats.
Someone snores in a room nearby.
A militia of ants collects then disperses.
I can’t stop my brain’s rearranging
now that I’ve exited the cubicle hours,
and risen above the sub-basements,
the ground floor and the mezzanine.
Note to self: The examined life is antithetical
to escalator culture that loops every 9 to 5.
Here wherever here is
I hear a bird chirp twice
like a cheap squeeze toy
caught in the mouth of a happy dog.
And yes, I feel finally free.
Delete me already.
Control alt delete me for good.
Drew Pisarra has written a poem for every Fassbinder movie he could find and a few that he couldn't like this one. When not writing poetry, he likes to blog on Korean movies at koreangrindhouse.blogspot.com and tweet on Shakespeare sonnets at @mistermysterio