Archive | February, 2016

Stomping My Feet on the Ground

18 Feb

it’s cold in here,
out there,
i stomp my feet
on the ground,
trying to regain
feeling,
but there is no
feeling
to be had
when your
feet turn to stone,
when no longer
know how to move,
when no longer
have any steps
left to take –

it’s not about
the cold,
or the warmth,
or the lack therein,
of either –
it’s not about
anything,
really –
not any more –

we listen
to the sound of
gunfire,
we get used
to the sound of
gunfire off in the distance,
out past the woods,
and vast desert
gardens,
the gunfire in
cities,
in buildings,
alleys and along
tree-lined avenues,
in Dallas,
in Sandy Hook,
in San Bernardino,
in Glendale, Arizona,
in Muskegon Heights –

we get used to
the gun shots,
the puppets on long
threads
dancing and screaming,
reciting polemics
and using fifty dollar
words
in a ten-dollar an hour
world –

it’s a sound bite,
it’s a news flash,
it’s an abomination,
both sides,
all sides –

the rhetoric
of redundancy
keeps offending
my skin
and i stomp
my feet
on the ground,
trying to regain
feeling,
trying to regain
warmth,
to regain something
that feels
a little bit
like
accomplishment –

The Echoes of Sheep

18 Feb

sitting at the end of another bar,
in another town,
another place without form, or style,
or grace –
another time,
before now,
after then –

an old television flickers
in black and white,
all the faces change
over time,
all the echoes slowly die,
and rise,
and fade –

(hello, yes dear…it’s me again!)

i watch snakes bathed in red and blue
coil in the tall grass –
they peer toward Washington,
toward towers built on the backs
of the beaten down and destroyed,
built upon forgotten dreams of a better place,
dreams of a higher road,
a higher realm –

God and country, angels and saints;
all forgotten now,
all left behind in dumpsters behind liquor stores –

if only to be color blind,
if only to be held at arm’s length,
but this is my town,
my place,
and things are more than a little fucked up –

sorry mom, but that’s the best way to put it –

i used to be a poet,
drink in hand,
witty retort dripping from my lips,
now i push a mop and broom,
my ideals lay a little closer to home –

let the snakes keep slithering toward their Valhalla,
and i will stand ready with pitchfork in hand –

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