hometowns hone the honey bells...

Troy Gas Light Company, Gasholder House, Jefferson Street & Fifth Avenue, Troy (Rensselaer County, New York) photo courtesy of Library of Congress

rogue planet blues

  

I walk outside, cut myself

on the sharp Sun

hurt my eyes

every breath stings me

the air is nettles and thistles

there are sounds beneath  

I struggle to hear my thoughts

over the mechanized monetized world

whirled about in intricate mad whorls

product placement buyers sellers

damning evidence of a Ponzi nation

taken hold with greed as a commandment

there came a day when the mounting evidence

showed a dam ready to burst

above the reach of our fingers and cries

there are sounds beneath things

sounds of an archangel cavalcade

sounds of parades and

the higher beings we pretend

we are to ascend to

what we are to become

according to the literature

when the breathing stops and

custodians in jumpsuits

push brooms, mops and pails

cleaning what chaos remains

we leave shadow blooms

pistil and stamen stains in Spring

like our innocence did in Hiroshima

memories of anyone like me

are easier to fold back into batter waves

scrubbing the concrete, covered feet leave

an insatiable hunger driving

the wheel of a big city bus

on another morning route

I don't mind the world being a lonely place

as I stroll for a newspaper and another cup of coffee

I bring my own mug, I have a theory

about unwashed hands and bacteria flowers

everyone wants to get inside you

yes, I may seem a bit dirty at first glance and

that very well may be true, people pass me by

without looking at me in the eye

I seem to smell bad too

I can't smell myself the way I used to

too much nose candy once

has taken that away from me

days and nights screaming

an eagle’s thieving voracity

I take off my clothes, sometimes

sweating out all the conspiracy theories

I can bite in six degree separations

I stop to sit on a stone ledge

with its topped iron fence

on route 66

high on a hill above

what once was

a great little river town

bristling with history

I see the news in pictures

framing words between lines

demarcation finds our flags

says get behind an ideologue

know that Love can save individuals

but it cannot save your world

we the people are mere insects now

just trying to stave off death

for another day and another cup of coffee

we multiply unseen hungers

something that may or may not materialize

we are hunting for that lurid Summer

no matter what time of year it is

this town

this poet

is no different

from you

though I imagine

you have

better scents and

a better sense

of direction

than I do

EJR ©