August 29, 2012

poem 292 of a poem a day for 2012

the anguish exit of matter

slow down
the soft parade
I think
you have it
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


1 comment:

  1. I needed to read this during my break. It's real, and beautiful, and full of truth. I love you E. Signed, Lady G.