I am bare and torn
a barren land of fortitude.
You’re slick-haired, clean, and driven.
Ambitious and self-righteous
You move your weight in grocery stores, offices,
and football fields. Your cultures, your words,
fake smiles, “how are you?”
illusions of connection.
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
Not happy, but content?
Henry said it better…
I’m a bearded **** with tattered feet.
You’re dying. I’m living
like an animal: woolen, bleeding, filthy.
I am two-armed, two-legged, I **** with my hands.
I’ve eaten from the tree that has no name.
And I’m not one to make up words.
I breathe and sleep, I eat, I drink.
There is no me, only shuffling sounds of feet on leaves;
oxygen, carbon monoxide that will someday cease to emit,
And the ground will eat the energy inside me.
Apr 3, 2011
Apr 3, 2011 at 12:17 AM UTC
A cartwheeling deadleaf crosses
the street, to a pack of fat crows
hunched by a meal, one crazy
enough to wobble next to speeding wheels
for a nibble, 'cause a corpse on the ground
is worth three in the belly.
Apr 3, 2011
Apr 3, 2011 at 12:13 AM UTC