Poverty
in the dirty faces of unfed children on Appalachian roads
Poverty
in mindless consumerism practiced like a faithless religion in suburban strip malls
Poverty
in the thoughtless jumble of misinformation splayed pornographically across the TV news
Poverty
in the generations of haphazardly educated children who find themselves grown without a compass
Poverty
in the metastasized pandering of the nightly spewed TV political advertisement vomit
Poverty
in the hollow slogans of politicians and corporations as they slither quietly together to criminal banks
Poverty
in the loss of hope in those who were to be the Guardians of Liberty and the defenders of the American Dream
Poverty
and for those who worked, fought, and died to make this land great--we should have done better
instead, all we have to show for, and all our children will inherit
is poverty.
Showing posts with label failed idealism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label failed idealism. Show all posts
Monday, October 13, 2014
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Die Anew
IV stings
Bedpan smells
The lonely nausea
I know so well.
The dehydrated
Muscle cramps
Contorted hands
Under harsh lamps.
And the routine
Moments bygone
But come again
Before long.
A daily warfare
Waged within
Weakness to some
To others sin.
But they're blind
To the stench idiotic
Bags of saline
Piggyback antibiotic.
I long to end
But fix my heart
On single purpose
A violent art.
So, I hate them
With paranoid fear
I long for death
But not here.
Not here...
On sterile sheets
Rather among cold earth
Accept me.
In its kind embrace
Again to be dirt
Where flowers grow
Picked gently.
For some other's
Cold hospital room
To quickly wilt,
And die, anew.
Bedpan smells
The lonely nausea
I know so well.
The dehydrated
Muscle cramps
Contorted hands
Under harsh lamps.
And the routine
Moments bygone
But come again
Before long.
A daily warfare
Waged within
Weakness to some
To others sin.
But they're blind
To the stench idiotic
Bags of saline
Piggyback antibiotic.
I long to end
But fix my heart
On single purpose
A violent art.
So, I hate them
With paranoid fear
I long for death
But not here.
Not here...
On sterile sheets
Rather among cold earth
Accept me.
In its kind embrace
Again to be dirt
Where flowers grow
Picked gently.
For some other's
Cold hospital room
To quickly wilt,
And die, anew.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Haight-Ashbury
they come from everywhere
they come from nowhere
rising out of the ground
fully formed and weird
they are ready to take on the day
they are ready to rape the night
they are
and somehow continue
so full of life
too full, in fact
and that unused potential
begins to rot inside their bones
it spreads into their skin and hair
it rots their teeth
it eats away brain cells and intelligence
and they are
somehow continue
on a march
slow and certain
toward a charitable grave
a victim
not of vice or circumstance
but of hubris
to think that one man mattered
in any of this ugly mess at all
they went to find themselves
they searched hard
and looked into strange mirrors
and in the end
they found no one
they found themselves:
nobody
they come from nowhere
rising out of the ground
fully formed and weird
they are ready to take on the day
they are ready to rape the night
they are
and somehow continue
so full of life
too full, in fact
and that unused potential
begins to rot inside their bones
it spreads into their skin and hair
it rots their teeth
it eats away brain cells and intelligence
and they are
somehow continue
on a march
slow and certain
toward a charitable grave
a victim
not of vice or circumstance
but of hubris
to think that one man mattered
in any of this ugly mess at all
they went to find themselves
they searched hard
and looked into strange mirrors
and in the end
they found no one
they found themselves:
nobody
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