Dust

Dust is the memory of things
The dust I leave will blend here
With your dust
And some improbable meeting
Will have taken place

The abandoned particles
Of all the previous visitors
Will mix with post self -conscious
Freedom
While footsteps prompt
The blending process
And leave their mark as well

O pure democracy
Of the silent dust
The combinations
Are quite simply endless

Biographies,
Fragments of work
Our sweat, our scent
One dried up tear and one piece of hair.

It's dust to dust
Way before tombstones
And really away from them

It's dust by us
For us
As us
Resolving all
Dreamt possibilities
Restoring all
Forgotten states. . .


Blessed

Blessed now are all theÉ
Blessing ones

Blessed are the simple
Because they're at ease
Blessed are the complex
Because they're amused

Blessed are the amusing
Because they share laughter
Blessed are the boring
Because they can rest

Blessed are the pretty
For they grace our world
Blessed are the ugly
For they learn to love

Blessed are the daring
For they change the world
Blessed are the cowards
For they keep it safe

Blessed are the agreeing
For they harmonize us
Blessed are the opposing
For they energize

Blessed are the ones concerned about us
For they know how to give
Blessed also are the unconcerned
For they are the receivers

Blessed are the complements
For they add up to one

So blessed be all the differences
That have thus colored life.



As I stand here

As I stand here
After sitting there
I wonder how I got from there to here
I look then at a point right in between these two
And think
Was I there too?
I mean, aware of being there
Or was I too obsessed with getting here?
If that's the case
What did I miss?
Why did I race?
Could I decide to wake up and change pace
To really enjoy the time I have
And so reclaim my space?
I guess the answer's yes,
If so I please
I'll try it next time
Then

Pablo Rosenblueth is a NYC poet. He the publisher of s-sense.com. His e-mail address is Sitegeist@earthlink.net .

The skin of the city

Our words are the skin of the city
Our eyes its only stars
Our hearts craft every cloud now hovering
Our moods rain down on it

Our thoughts blow all the winds
Sweeping our memories

Our body's mass
Hosts sensitive and conscious transportation

Our fears run underground
In crowded tunnels

Our certainties are scheduled
Until further notice

Our breath's in charge of time
As it can give us
The rush of hours
Or the crawl of minutes

Our ears bring on the music of the land
As they combine the random
With the expected

Our hands now threat, now greet
Until they can caress
The perfect stranger

The legs that built the pace
May sometimes dance to it
And so regain some grace

We are the concrete
Motions and sensations

We also are the glass
Transparent and yet shielding

We are the monuments
That we forgot
And all the achievements
We would try to purchase

Our words can bring a new skin to the city
And this time
Let's give ourselves more time
To touch it

The Call

The other day I had to talk with God
So I just called collect.

The operator asked:
Which god would that be?
I asked: How many do you have there?
As many as you need. -she said
I stressed: but what about THE God?
Ah, you're one of those -she jeered
Let me connect you with the abuse department.

Hello this is THE God. How may I help you?

So I asked Him: Are you Christian?
He said: I don't believe in human sacrifice
I do like people well

You're Jewish then?
I don't need any chosen races
I think they're all OK

So is it Muslim?
Why would I want you to be obsessed with me?
Go out and get a life!

A Hindu...ist?
If your past was a cage, your future would just be redundant
Now, now wouldn't it?

So what do you believe in?
I just believe in you,
That's why you're free.

All I could say was:
Thank you.

A voice came in:
"To continue this call
Please deposit all your dogmas In the nearest wastebasket"

Thank you for using
Common Sense

Be. . .be . . .be . . .
Click