January 1, 2013

it is a new year and what is a poet to do, well, write as only a fool could of course...

photo by Sam Rohn ©

hidden inside the Holy Sepulchres of a modern Byzantium, Love waits to storm

I rummage the garbage
outside the parishes for food
for thought, for ways
to escape through fantasy
or a gamble inside trials

did the wise men mean
to carry out these plans
these planked regards
these denial of services
did they mean
to know how
society casts light
to the dark
or is everything
still a happy accident
depending on ability
to curry favor and
win the crowds

welcome to this land
the song says, and
while it might be
your land
more than likely
this land is always
going to be
the uncle man’s
the ultimate
Sam I am man’s

the narrow back streets
open to deserted boulevards men
signposts, misdirection and
placards men are everywhere
façade storefronts men 
material entanglement clauses men
I mutter, beneath my breath
something that sounds
like a caged bird masking
that I am asking the flags down men
or you the red, white and blue man

and when they all nod yes, I ask
why, do you have so much
barrel cannons fired
upon shored summations
and fears
have you run
the calculations
for more money
did you mean
to feed us more god
outside of these state walls
the separation of church and state
wants to know if indeed I did
read the newspapers incorrectly
is it wrong for me to surmise
that this top hat man
does not wish to be treated
as he might be treating others

women and children die
every day in his long wars
away from home and never shown
on our television screens
they call it the Vietnam filtration processing
and never have I been more terrified
to be alive and American
the prize allocations are smaller
then I remember reading about
dreaming in hysterical paraded histories
at the millstone school-yarded
futures, full of sorrows, dust and bones

our clothing and communications
have changed perhaps
as it is less likely to see
the chains this way
and it seems that when
we do listen we only listen to noise
and I suppose it is much more
easy to deceive us this way
when everyone’s head is down
in a phone, praying for time
to be cut up into the little pieces
of string we can tie around our fingers
to remember we once knew souls
may have been more valuable
than a fast food fried value
the crispy delicious temporary graves
that cannot be dug fast enough
to bury the lot of us at once
so we mostly, persist and pray for rain
as floods worked once and
might again someday pull back the Sun



  1. wow. nice indictment of a country...so much embedded in these lines about the Sam I am that is uncle ...and the misdirection of men....

    1. Always nice to hear your views...many blessings sir...bright and bountiful...thanks for stopping in...

  2. stark, i am also terrified (AU)
    so much unquestioned momentum