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
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.

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