16 July 2017


I write what I see, what I feel, vibrations
in my world, observations
examined through my lens—
the bottom of a whiskey glass—
afternoon by afternoon and early evening by early evening,

calling a spade a fucking shovel regardless of class,

but let us not discuss that form of warfare (although it may be
time to reexamine the usefulness of
the guillotine
and sharpen the blade).

I wish to throw lines like spears
piercing the bubble of ignorance
created by the political dance and corporate stance
of clueless heartless capitalists, enabled by their 30-pieces-of-silver bought toadies,
don't realize that if, indeed, Atlas Shrugged,
the sky would fall,
on us

My lens reveals
a wildfire out of control, burning the acreage of our heritage,
smoking our horizons, obscuring what lies ahead,
but we know. Don't we.

No comments:

Post a Comment