March 30, 2012

poem 109 of a poem a day for 2012

as Congress writes more checks, more appendaged soul is leaking into a lost stare, we are a blank check flushed with cash in hand and the emptying dreams of Prometheus now

lottery tickets in hand, covered in the ash I tip back onto myself from spitting at a windmill thing I just can’t get myself over with, I mean where in the name of crucifixion do we nail ourselves to when we’ve got our heads so far up our own asses, all the shit we consume doesn’t stink as much as what we say is the name of communal thought in America, I mean outside the rain matters as it patters against the drafty house that is leveraged too high to capitalize right now though I don’t know that many more buzzed words just friends who get high too if only to fly in bits and pieces in torn tattered long looks from how come and why not me, what if those lines people fill without trying are dying tines for the chance to hit it once… the cruise down easy street is a dirty dream sold to seduce the young and old alike and this time we’ve got too many gadgets of distraction attracting the prolonged and worst in humanity…no freedom from thought and the body’s arranged marriage back to instinct… instead we rape Pandora and split her box to unlock all our dirty intentions with pure as the drifted snow of organisms we put back together in a humpty-dumpty genetic porn collection…shelling out for extra-wides and close-ups of the money shot…even the molecules strip down to have every one of themselves photo id’d… indeed we bleed for a quiet moment once in a while which is why sometimes with being tired chasing me down from these cold March skies I forge on, staying ahead of myself trying to choose the words, the weaves and leaves fingering the bones in just outside my window , we might have been pioneers once, we might have been original threads, we might have been bone dry like dead skin cells given back to the Sun just to shape and form something so that no function would be left to salvage a breath against the pall-bearing wind of the piper’s song…


1 comment:

  1. You might like this quote about "might have been" by a female author.