After Reading Marcuse

Alienated from work, we are alienated from the elements:
the wind flings its idiot-rattle
and binds me to it's blade.
Drops stare into the oblivion of dispersal,
fire abdicates the rage of it's touch.
I wander among the tables with their fine little cups,
all who drink stare dumbly,
eyes wide with no content.
Only the earth is faithful.
It holds the sediment of ages
and waits for my contribution.

1 comment:

Metacrock said...

excellent poem. I remember the coffee shop discussion where I talked about that passage in Marcuse that inspired this poem.