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.
