The Wheel

I am drawn within my own designs-
along the back-road when the city just seems too much rock & stone, where very little seems to grow.

Though I did make note that some things change- with wrecking balls and jack-hammers. Sometimes,
pyromaniacs perform a public service.

But even that seemed to scar over in time, though the opinions may vary on whether it was healed rightly or not. There is a junkyard for discarded ideals.

Give me the hollowed-out skeleton of an Edsel, lain
deep in the brush and overgrown with weeds and
wildflowers- with some attempt to conceal it within
the trees.

It is a rusting memory from someone else's life; ..
which like any discovery, becomes mine. To pitch a
flag upon that tattered hood where there once was a little engine that couldn't.

Sometimes, I have a taste for lemons ..

To dream like Tesla-
who made Westinghouse fat and shared a vision- until it was taken back (Perhaps there was something stolen as well). Such are these corporate crimes, that when genius might beg some slight return, to be tossed into the self-same ice-box that it helped create.

Deception can be patented upon the premise that it is fair game to raid another man's fridge- and leave him only the bones.

I do not confer myself with genius- only a dreamer,
nothing so grand. (Though I do too often feel both
anger and pity for the man who fed the tycoon some
choice lamb- and was to be later buried beneath his
shit.) ...ah what is the true price for such illusions
of power, save those too many things that remain
un-invented.

There are times when I might see my own tower raised- to transmit and receive waves; or perhaps merely nearly so, the elaborate construct of a near-miss.

These are like the skeletons of once grander dreams.