August 24, 2012

poem 281 of a poem a day for 2012

the caught in a pinch, painted wall army of Elvis, has been dead for 35 years now

in gourd palace ante-chambers
with slung mosses
beneath the tapestries
fitted bricks and the wind
sometimes there is a call
to a Rumpelstiltskin
dream-state opulence
that can be had
by using straw spun gold

I dig with clawed hands
in backyards
past midnight
for more Autumn
to arrest in cricket sounds
my strung out gravity is
its own late night talk show
with pink cadillac intro-music
to the little political monologues
the holy rolling of the titillation begins
the moment the polls open
continues until 3am
when the info-mercials begin
ronco dial-a-matics
and the rico statutes that
take everything of mine
not nailed down
before another night
is corrupted
with Dawn again

I need more
subsidized coffee
to keep crazy
running into the woods
onto plains for white stags
and buffalo in the once great
American landscape of dee-jays
spinning hot wax and hope
in non-refundable shipping fees

we were once paycheck to paycheck
with attached deductibles
for subscriptions to later reward
it was the end of the second great war
and we attacked the weekends
because retirement and Heaven
were our goals

Jacob Marley is in chains
in the white noise
that I am now stirring myself in
on the back sofa with the TV left on

in the crooked vespers
of my quiet racing mind
factuality is winged
is a lament in
histrionics bent
to where there is
no middle class left
to ease the squeeze of pennies I see
marching back to the copper mines

remains another
Dunkirk needed
to get back to that
promised land of pensions
and hands
that take the knives
out of the backs of ingenuity
to carve out more homesteads
in the digital world
to fill them with something
so marketable as each
of our personal joys

they all can be yours
for the low easy payments
of first born children and
minus that kind of credit
they’ll take blood in plastic packets
with your cells due on delivery
pulling the white van up
to your house and ringing
like those whirling whistles
in the deep plains
only these sirens
sound like they were meant
to pull you out
of your castle
because in America
only the dollar
can be King


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