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Look at the centurial trees. They are twisted and
knotted--beautifully deformed. They pierce dark bowels to
quaff sunlight.

Silly grinning cars snake by the trees. Blinking
hard-shelled insects file out from city tunnels. A
swarm disguised in Pierre Cardin feels importantly silly
because a "DON'T WALK" flashes, checking them at the curb.
They fidget and curse watches. Giant girders swing lazy
above, sickening them. A "WALK" laughs and lets them go.

Crickets hiding in bushes reject them with a sandpaper
din. The swarm takes refuge in a museum hunched in shadow.
They shed and become a crowd. They marvel at the old creations
that free them from thought. They want to believe,
but cannot. The museum is too dark.

Karl Bugenhager

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