the
anguish exit of matter
slow
down
the
soft parade
I
think
you
have it
spinning
at
45 rpm
I
want to hear
the
right cackle
and
hiss
and
whether
or
not I missed something
when
the plan was
to
fill the phone lines
with
the gum and
the
shine-wrap foil
of
the internet
with
our souls
all
origami-ed
from
the waste
and
spread onto the fields
like
the lost animal parts
of
our humanity
we
are wandering herds
in
the painted deserts
burning
the sense
of
smell from us
so
we can’t remember
what
the sand
on
the bellies of wind
drives
a hard raked stake
into
the heart of life for
the
carve of time
cares
not for the subject matter
just
that the canvas
stays
full and bleeding
the
ends onto the floor
and
into the beginnings
of
the rain
outside
the window again
the
television is on
with
500 channels of shit
and
there’s not a proctologist alive
with
enough bibles in thrive
not
to surmise
that
we might need
the
most monumentally
proportioned
enema of all time
a
shit storm and ark flood flush
that
leaves us wiping out
the
morass from the morals
gone
missing long enough
to
spawn a crop load
of
banterer seducers in
this
age of populism
that
is alive
and
well and ribboned
throughout a third world
that is hungry as hell
and
coming after
your
American dream too
EJR
©
I needed to read this during my break. It's real, and beautiful, and full of truth. I love you E. Signed, Lady G.
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