The Man on Temple Street Hill

 Jason Pech


He sits alone on a staircase,

that cuts through a small hill.

In a world unlike our own

—It is known only by those within, that zone.

—It is a realm of deep delusion.

—it is frightening and fantastic

—swirls & visions,

—too difficult for

—The orderly mind—

                      —to comprehend.

—Stand now if you ever dare to stand

within the torn, worn, an’ blistered black feet of he—

What we deem as an ordinary walk through the concrete jungle

Is a great and arduous pilgrimage

On gashed, muddy, and bloody knees.

Barreling sound all around,

a great palette of voices surround and crowd

the mind—

like that of the

foot traffic among these gargantuan monuments of glass.

— utterly unable, unwilling to end their incessant chatter.

—The only antidote for the constant seems to be acknowledgment of

—the deafening rainbow.

—the world moves fast,

people’s movement become a blur.

How simple it is to get lost in the hysteria of it all.

—this quickened pace of the race, will amaze

—a taste of paranoia —

Much now unseen today as yesterday

Genuine or not

Pushed into a blind spot

No sorry none, repeat.

—the portable chemical factory

Offends and simultaneously beats away hunger

—we who lie on the urban rot

—build homes of tattered tarpaulin,

and take in the view of

Castles in the clouds.