Marc Janssen


The Crystal Cathedral is crumbling;
Panes, high in its cavernous expanse crack, and, in a heavy wind,
Slip into gravity’s angry hand to make the journey 
Spinning glinting, to splinter where once was a parade of camels.
Were you ever there, among the throng when that pipe organ shouted and the red light was on?
Maybe you are there now that the Catholics have moved in;
Maybe not.

Among the holiest of sites at Disneyland;
The Kaaba of Space Mountain fastpass kiosks,
Whose devotees pilgrimate in sacred circles right to left
Through the queues of their own thoughts in an effort to satisfy their desire for 
Waiting for the opportunity to wait later in the day.
Is that ironic retro seventies futurama the deconstructed Mount Sinai?
In that dark and dangerous place enough prayers have been said,
And it always seemed Tomorrowland would be the perfect place,
If you were anywhere, it would be at the happiest place on earth.
Or perhaps not.

After the old Toyota pickup with the mismatched paint ticks and catches breath outside the crowded Oxnard bungalow, he returns from another day on the pick-and-pack line and removes his shoes.
Pushes back into the chair so the foot rest comes up, the handle is broken.
Thinking of the rumors that they are going to move the warehouse to Mexico,
There is the smell of something cooking in the kitchen; rice, some sauce, 
The sound of strife from one of the bedrooms produces three year old pigtails with tears who cat curls into his lap and presents a hurt finger and a tale of woe.
He kisses the finger and lets it linger in his tired palm.

The pain token is affixed to the wall observing the scene,
To him it looks like pain-
Peace holding hands with pain.