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| photo by Ronald L. Haeberle (in the public domain) |
poem says I knew what Constantine's Mother knew
war lore and more proxy wars
we're whores for them
hidden in the dark inside flag draped coffins
I like to snake between your eyes
and thoroughly disappear ...
from a conscious thought
poem and I burrow, ghost glow-n
young men and women
things that will burn
a child's mind ...
I ask every lizard king I ever meet
do the retinas of our souls wear
everything as a staged-easy consumption ...?
this, poem says
is a very American way of life
being what pervades
the waking life
into a world aghast
at how we are fed
the women and children
grin to=ground flesh ...
fear has physical might
and it is an insatiable machine
milk and honey it seems
is nothing but figment-ed dreams
Pandora heard laughing
in the distance
at the end of every song here ...
I'm in the Midwest
eye cede I'm seeded
with seedy dreams
of corn syrup and sawdust
I disguise my self
a shelf life elf nose
filled with cellulose ...
are soybeans gluten free
I overhear someone ask
at Denny's while chasing sleep
and eggs anytime of night
the factoids of my poems
are often surreal
with teal cups of tea
reading my story by entrails ...
this poem, especially seeks
to peeks at and
about the bottom lines
of most mined life false narratives
just as we do
in the eternal wandering
of a mind at night
we're not taking chances
so we leave the vestal corpses
with close relatives
like the horses
Yankee Doodle dandy
and randy Uncle Sam
so often rode in on ...
we still shoot women and children
every chance and circumstance
we can dance to death with
for to us, faithfully or pain free
any newly departed
is a life sped off the rails
some part of us
sent to a dead letter office
by way of golden stairs
or elevator of material ascension ...
humanity as spirit is
slowing ever slowing, a soul once
as poem become stuck then stilled
just as someone will often blush
caught in public when they've farted ...
poem says always watch
a library burn
even the one in your town
for Hypatia is slain
time and again
tile and stone
hope waiting for an urn ...
Constantine's legacy
was felling the prevailing winds
his Mother's ships
full of knowledge
setting sail
for a tomorrow
that never needed to know
who may be next as long as there was
someone in line, wanting to be found
instead, scattered on the roadside, dead
as a dream once ago, nailed to a church door ...
EJR ©
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