I am a stranger
in a strange
land

When asked the time
of day I give numbers
instead of letters

The blank stares
of others
offers no comfort
or help

In a city of well-kept glass,
on roads they’d have you
think were gold, there are
men and women and children
living lives they’d call
“happy”

with a strange feeling
of aloneness,
I cut swath across their
ranks, asking each man
and women and
child:

“what do you mean
you’re happy?”

from the glazed over eyes,
to the obvious lies,
to the corruption and
hatred and greed

above all things I’ve seen
between all things I need
below me I see a great depth

where are the reporters?
the conspirators? the
malcontents? where are
the watchdogs we call
nary-do-wells? or their
brothers the minor
senators? what happened
to religion? and faith
and belief? what happened
to god and to justice?
why are the front doors
closed and the back
doors open? why do
we not look into our
eyes? what happened
to us? all of us? every
one? where have I been
and now gone?

my restless eyes,
quite hypnotized,
cannot comprehend
or think of the
truth

that this land that I’m in,
this one stranger than fiction,
is in fact, my own, and no
other