Beverage bottles are manufactured on high-speed machines that melt sand and soda and whatnot and blow the shapes, form and cool them, all at a fast enough production clip to supply the thirsty multitude their must-be-in-glass beverages, your high-end imported bottled waters, expensive boozes distilled from the dew drops collected off the potato crop raised in the volcanic soils of the mountainsides of Vesuvius watered with the tears of Venus and fertilized with the rose-scented feces of Zeus Himself, your unguents, your parfumes, your eau de toilettes. These graceful artifacts of mass production technology tumble as the arc through the air when thrown from passing car windows at night by the boys who go hoot, hoot, tumble end over end, whistling slightly in the air and dispersing their remaining fluid loads in droplets which arc themselves out of the spinning ends of the bottles, end over end, until bottle meets cement and shatters, casting shards and raising expanding domes of shattering sound waves that radiate outward as air pressure ripples in the atmospheric pond, and the squarish fragments of non-solid non-liquid sharp-edged dice spray across the pavement rolling across asphalt and bike lane paint showing their chance sides and the boys know deep inside as they reach for the next bottle to throw half a block further along that they've rolled craps again.
A man awakes, hears the shattering, thinks, "they're doing it again," and buries his head in his pillow. He tells himself to go back to sleep but cannot, instead thinking about work items undone and left to be fixed.
|not a lament I go just go around|
|not a rant people will be people and boys break bottles in the streets|
|sweepers sweepers send in the sweepers|
|I raise the morning and find the glass half shattered|
The glass shattered is not sand. Sand would be full shattered and a true vandal would not stop and would not be satisfied until every bottle and every shard of every bottle was reduced to sand. These were half-assed vandals unwilling to go the full measure of glass shattering, apparently. Leaving these half-shattered shards around, their failure manifest for all to see. They glisten, they shine in sunlight, they glass beyond all sandhood.
A jar full of these would not resemble a beach. Yet I see in each single chunk as sense abandoned, chaos yielded to, reason and restraint thrown out the window in an arc that tumbles over and over and releases the last remnants of contained liquid as other arcs, hoot, hoot, shatter.
The line between order and chaos is marked by broken glass on bike lane asphalt.
Neighborhood order they say, hoot hoot, I wish you to be broken, thus.
But we sweep, we ride, we don't listen. The glass half-shattered is recycled, reblown, reformed, refilled with waters, perfumes, boozes, unguents, labelled, stocked on shelves, lined row on row, rank on rank of liquid product.
This post published at 1:11:11 on 1/1/11 during the breaking hour. Take that ye lords of chaos and breakage. My fearful 1-ness symmetry taunts you like miles of bottles on shelves, unshattered.
The man with his head buried in his pillow finally drifts back to fitful sleep. His pillow is mighty, the pull of sleep is infinite, and the man has the solid memory of spinning wheels to lull the din.