Doctrine of Our Times

The entrance way to the city is through the harbor,
never upward toward the skyscrapers.
The windows dance with the doctrine of our times.
The post-modern animal is closing in on infinity.
He feints translation in a spacious room.
He is stealing time from its cradle.
Dance with the post-modern animal.
     Name his decorative objects.
     Go to a feverish meeting. Bake bread.
     Drink his brand of fruit juice.
I see you trip on the dismount.
You need not omit emotion.
I am only a parking meter attendant. Ask the oracle.
I sift through the ambiguous shapes I have become
to travel here.
This is the center. The tail has been in place for centuries.
The skyscraper also has a tail.
Someone has to interpret their multiple sides,
their connected towers that catch the sun.   
     New gods flash in the pan.
     A superhero is born at the side of the road.
My alter ego leans against a puff of smoke which is this age.
There are no solutions to melancholy, only permutations.
A comic mask that chuckles less than twice is discarded
as a thing out of fashion.

The relentless copy cat only begins
to scratch the surface of things.
He eyes the letters on the chart
and glances at the water in the glass.
The departure board blinks
with the awful availability of destinations.
My hometown is a somatic stop
on the superhighway of information.
My elbows are out by the car.
Listen to its faint beating in the next heartland.
Have a guiding light that fades forever each time you close your eyes.
Keep your dreams running in the sunshine.