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

EJR ©