the time of ramen

Swirling pennants raised in celebrations no one understands.
Patterned silks embroidered with elegant nonsense,
characters from an uninvented language.
Signifying without meaning,
distinction without difference,
heralds of cancer or cure,
signals of madness advancing and retreating,
finding fisherman on the rocks,
well-intentioned speakers out of their depths.
Maybe the world is growing weary of something
of struggle, of us, the way even the waves
only groan against a too-firm shoreline,
sighing like a middle-aged lover left before dawn
or a virgin too far past his prime.
Maybe time is gathering itself for a special event,
maybe he spent his allowance early and we are in
the time of ramen noodles and broadcast TV.