November 8, 2012

poem 417 of a poem a day for 2012




high quality ink blots and messianic doom plots between the sickle and the spade

lines form
break down
the lanes choked
go stop go routines
Winter’s early
blankets, second skin us
makeshift air filters
when the smoke
gets too thick
low valley surrender to cancer
particulates race with unseen intentions
mentioning the tiny knives
tilling the range of our emotional elasticity
sub atomic to microscopic kingdoms
on the way up through electron observations
on main street and in all the places
between gated cul-de-sacs and the alleys
preened of anything shiny at night

scattered electrical shortages
shape shift the need to blame the poison
not the intent of any bible now applied
to the ingredients listed on the side
of a plastic wrapped convenience food
we eat connective pulps,
separated fats and by-products
genetically enhanced grain fillers
we keep going dark
we scream for caffeine
for renal failure road
venal urges surge  
tide-want more

Christmas is coming
Americans hate each other
want the other side wounded
to pay punitive damages
most in the middle
live with the riddle of why
we gather close enough to fire
to burn us beyond recognition
into scarred scared bared sore stepping
what used to be leapt
but now is kept
a windowed distance
a romantic nostalgia
a box top coupon fantasy
mailing away pieces
of your life in order
to keep dreams away
from being taxed

the songs we sing
are call prayers when
we think no one 
is listening

we sing, for those who think
we are not yet greedy enough as a nation
we sing, for those who might not see
we are in the midst of a class war
we sing, for those too busy to know
we are not ready to admit factory farms are a failure
we sing, for those who seem never able to say
we are wrong for denying anyone
the right to pursue a happy life
we sing, for those, who when alone
pray too in song
in languages
common to us all
we sing songs like this...

we are in need of a spiritual enema
we are prisoners to Judeo-Christian mindset
we are lock stock and barrel ready
to fight each other to see
who can build the fence
and bury the other half of us
beneath great trees outside security

someday when
these hymnals
are as old as
the sturdy sentinels of trees
we may even succumb
to a Goddess storm
that climbs and
ghost wind rages
along the thirteen
colonies that wanted
all those different things
so long ago

someday, every storm
might rake this land
as hard as we ever did
trying to defy speculation
and prognostication
looking back for patterns
from when iron
was a pounded currency
to our most 
up to date brand
of mankind 
we are driven by nothing
but desire for more
so much so
that even deep space
can not erase
its sirens
of resource 
discovery
its gathers
its retrieval
our protecting
of the flag-
bearing hoard

so we sing
those songs
that tell of an eventually
we will come to see
we are all buried
to be born again, someday
into the hand written
beauty and calligraphy
of rooted bones
each of our stories
loamed with the power
of a poem

telling the bent bowed
listening world
just when we knew
this place became split
a fractured two
a kind of life waiting
here for the rain
to turn bullets and bane
onto the white folks
so that they may finally
know the words and sing
we shall overcome too

EJR ©

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