THE BUILDING AND THE OLD MAN (AND HOW COMMUNISM DESTROYS ARCHITECTURE AND LOVE)

This is a poem, in the non-traditional sense of poetry, which i wrote in creative writing at Colorado State University. i decided to make it into a short film in film and editing class.

I know him; he is the one with crystalline-shaped rectangles reflecting years of loneliness. His façade is a depressed elephant waiting for death.  He has a nose of uneven stacked Legos, redwood and seventy-year-old grey bricks.  His Indian red eyes are burnt by the years of relentless blistering sun-rays damaging his corneas. Dumbo’s crimson stained ears protrude, as if he knows he must take flight before the demolition crew arrives. Inside his forehead and around his nose and eyes there are concrete circles boxed in like a pack of cigarettes, but upon closer inspection it is mesh, screening out life. He has windows, two windows reflecting time outside passing by, windows afraid to entertain spectators with a view of his lifeless soul. His lips are sealed, neither grim nor contempt expressed, perhaps just misunderstanding of his purpose.

All life surrounding him is dead, except a tree. A tree which was planted in the hope of fooling him into believing he had a future, fooling his former occupants into the same hope.  He has many dead trees of propaganda pasted to his skin; the announcements are one collage of the past years glued over each other.

I know him, he who stood during the second collision of the world; he rose through the ashes of the dead. Eventually, time wins, capturing all who reside within its arms.

I know him, where 60 years ago, I felt her cotton candy hand melt into mine as we pressed his buttons and I smelled fresh peeled tangerines coming from her hair as we rode up in his shiny box.

I know him; he who is filled with carbon monoxide and asbestos choking life out of his inhabitants.  I know this building, where she surrendered to his poisons, breathing in his toxins, I know him well.

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