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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