soundtrack for the collapse of the empire. part iii.

soundtrack for the collapse of the empire.
part iii.

the maya did not disappear.
they simply abandoned their cities,
and stopped paying tributes to the gods
because they gods had forsaken them,
and their land no longer grew crops.
so that the high class of rulers also starved,
and they too had to leave their temples
        and homes and learn to be
        just like the people.

so that when the people start to starve…
don’t expect them to pay tribute.

what are you waiting for?
for the people to abandon the empire
because they are already beginning to go hungry.


5 thoughts on “soundtrack for the collapse of the empire. part iii.

  1. This and the other two sections make this a powerful trilogy. I really like part iii. I think it’s especially important because this last section can stand by itself as a more compact, more simply expressed, therefore maybe more powerful piece if you should decide at one point to present everything the trilogy is saying. It’s a great, powerful ending that can also stand alone as its own poem. Thanks for this.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Ancient Tombs of Banan

    Four very light pebbles attached
    to flung-sprung rubber band found
    between new laid bricks, retrieved
    by mound-viewing haze-gazer reminds
    him of the day he gave up that for this.

    Tall seeded grasses wave as a group
    passes and a small bee buzzes with
    interest. The man with no plan sees rice
    on the land, chattel by cart, its grain
    raked onto black plastic on the road.

    Some is still standing, Van Gogh’s yellow
    landing between green and smoldering
    fields. Ggachis fly by, bales are stacked
    high, a rooster lets loose surrounded by
    mountains’ shapes feathered in as if Ross

    took his two-incher and stroked Payne’s
    gray in a jagged horizontal line between
    white grading to blue atop, and the
    harvester’s fog below. Set free again, he
    sits looking at ancient burial homes

    so rounded and soft, kept mown, who
    knows how, in pairs that excite the
    dream of the lonely tractor driver
    who precisely gathers the rows. He
    leaves tracks for spring’s women to sew.

    Here comes a guard atop Folk Museum
    to punch his post. He doesn’t look hard
    or he’d see the forbidden beer that
    mimics the color of one more field’s
    cloud that floats by but still notices tears.

    Liked by 1 person

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