October 18, 2012

poem 390 of a poem a day for 2012

scratching off a win for life, outside the documentation bureau  

all lives not fit for pages
are bits of magnets
coded for storage and
they are in huddled masses
they are milling about
in elastic moans
disguised as pop culture attachment  
they cry plastic
coating onto everything
a drip melt burn sound
electricity is rampant
running beyond wires
rifling pockets
of an icy sky
night climbs down
to paint the trees
frosting every window it can
like our shaved down metal dreams
that reveal who we are
scratching madly
at the surface of things
finding nothing remains
of our once bright humanity

chance lotteries are sold
subscription style
to keep the lines roped
and somewhat maintained
some groups head off
into the wilderness
now and again
they are written off
as not quite right
marginalized nebbishes
of why mankind
is a diminished royalty

it is their will that is tamed
by going into what is left of the forests
as much as the self banishment
serves the greater good
of modernity’s bottom fed life

the anointed tops of society
have long since pushed
through the clouds and
no longer wonder sometimes
if there is any rabble rousing
in our over-populated world
stripped down of its intelligence
and compassion
in a cruel slow siphon bleed
would we still be dousing hope
by the second
would we have every eye still peering
and every neck still craning
to find something to have
and to hold as our own
what is it that makes us believe
that someday, something
will fall down
from the diamond cut time
that masquerades as stars
to make sense of it all

you see
everybody wishes
for something
down here
everybody wants
a controllable future
because everybody
just might have
lost their way
as we the people
have always needed
someone to blame
in our brave new worlds
something to fill each second
that remains
in the hisses and whorls
of countdown clock symphonies
we keep turning
the dial between
the stations left on the radio  
trying to find music again
for we have long since realized
that we might not know
how to wield
an arrow of time
into a song anymore
we might not know
how to draw back
the bow of destiny
strung tautly with free will
to let love lead beyond
the touch of skin and bones
to where our spirits reside
like the calendars we watch
hardening our resolve
to continue admiring
ourselves, in the mirror


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