divided selves

Half of everyone puts everything
into keeping the golden wheel spinning
(some pedal, some run along like hamsters,
some simply swipe, like the plate-spinner
who comes to the mall on saturdays);
the other half is just here to watch.
In this way, we amuse ourselves to no end.
(To what end? No end in sight. World without end.)
The silent cycle of ingenuity becomes
our answer to the circle of the foodchain,
of erosion, or of rust: enough new and gilded ideas,
if we believe in them strongly enough,
can turn death into a merry-go-round.
(Surely. Hopefully. Nevermind, just focus on the plates.)
I watch myself from the balcony of my brain,
below there, sweating in the plaza,
tinkering with a machine that moves the earth.
The whole contraption wheezes and churns.
(I feed it with firewood. Old books. Dead pets.
Out from the other end come indie bands and mobile phones.)
From what my balcony self can see, leisurely,
peering from behind the Times, I seem intent:
determined, single-minded, perhaps unhinged.

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