so much scaffolding on these artificial streets,
makes it so I never even have to feel
a single drop of rain…
what a holy brutal luxury
to be conveyed from stop to stop
by the uneven propulsion of automated beasts,
clinking and clanking,
and spitting out hot, wet, dirty steam…
thirty pounds of expensive corporate tech
strapped to my back, still not as heavy
as the thick, woolen invisible blanket
of always being watched —
mommies and daddies in different colored suits,
protecting and saving, supporting and growing
their armies of super-smart and responsible
drone-babies—but, yeah, we’re always aching
for home, baby
and never quite finding it—
never discovering the solace of sanctuary,
never really knowing any meaning
outside the promise of achieving…more and more,
and yet always taking our beatings
under these tattered, makeshift shelters
— these cityscapes perpetually under construction…
I know…we hope, we silently hope
one day, maybe by accident,
to feel just a little bit of that cold electric rain,
on our tired, burnt-out faces
Garbage Notes:
This poem’s about a time when I commuted every day by train to Manhattan, took the subways, walked several blocks through congested city streets to get to a job that I was not happy about.
It was a very unpleasant commute. A sensory assault, really. A daily journey that made me feel small and anxious and alone.
Looking back on it, I like the sensory detail in this piece. All the senses are involved, from hearing the clinking and clanking, to smelling and tasting the hot and dirty steam on the streets, to feeling the weight of my heavy backpack. And of course, the sights—all the miserable tired faces, the cityscape in various states of disrepair.
It was a real mess—a major part of my life once, but now it only exists as poetry for me. I don’t think I could ever go back to doing something like that.
The line about armies of super-smart and responsible drone-babies trying to please their mommies and daddies. It’s just all the disgusting pandering you have to do when you work certain jobs. How you have to project yourself as ultra-competent at all times, even when you’re really like one broken button away from a nervous breakdown.
The ache for home back then—it was the search for solace in something that was mine—something meaningful, something creative and inspiring. The happy ending is that I found it in this—my home is in the written word. Now and always.
Franco Amati 2023
"what a holy brutal luxury." LOL. I LOVE THAT !! And "automated beasts." The very essence of humor. A friend of mine received his PhD at Yale Drama and the subject of his thesis was HUMOR!! How dare he! What audacity to presume to define the the indefinable. However, his key concept: Incongruity is at the core of every laugh. Incongruity. I have found it to be true.
Loved your notes today, very well written, and you know how I enjoy your poems Franco ;)