you push the button
cause it makes you feel good
you say the prayer
but it’s misunderstood
through the meat-cased gland
that you surrender
and it makes you feel good
you form opinions
from a random machine
you play your soul
while it’s counting the beans
it’s just a nervous tic
the body politic
twitch for mommy
and surrender the green
When the lines go dead
When the sky turns red
When the moon pulls the waters over everything we built
Covers all our castles with the silent weight of silt
Will you think of me
Know that I loved you
When the drumbeat starts
And we are torn apart
When that ancient song is rising once again
Shouted from the galleys and the drums along the Tiber
We were happy
We were happy
When we are quarantined
And this life seems a dream
When our children are off stranded in the fever of the world
Slashing wooden swords at some gentleman’s disregard
What did we teach them?
And did we reach them?
It just seems a shame
We played a decent game
Fidgeting and fighting while the days turned into night
Drowning out the distance where the trouble had never died
We were thieves
We were liars
But we were happy
Reverted to a less-customized theme. The site was experiencing some intermittent display issues, and was minimally functional on mobile devices. So I’ve opted for a more out-of-the-box format (customized within provided parameters) in exchange for a more robust platform. The hope is that I may start posting stuff more frequently, but we’ll see.
There’s still a little work to do, so pardon any formatting glitches.
For awhile we could live
where the air blew rumors
of trash barges up the Hudson
and helicopters pounded the dome.
We could watch the ferry boats weave
webs across the space
begun by water and finished with
ratios of styrofoam and steel.
There were no spiders there;
they couldn’t afford it.
There were barely bugs, but even so,
this was cockroach turf.
Except that one time, which only proved the rule.
The spider prowled like a tiny bear
on the marble floor near the loading dock,
a stowaway from Korea.
I crushed its life with my shoe
(no bodhisattva, I,)
saving the New Jersey ecosystem
from certain contamination.
They let me have that one, the spiders,
but they are waiting for me
in the corners of my new home,
in the closets.
They will raid my dreams from their sacs
where the ceiling meets the wall,
dying in my mouth:
a bolus of hair and leg and fang.
They will parachute into my cereal
while I am half awake,
twitch and spawn by the window screen.
They know what I am;
all of spider-dom knows it.
But I will run their gauntlet for the
sake of my children.
In the hedges, orb weavers vibrate in the wind, waiting.
Dr. Phil was angry today.
We talked about my feelings,
which I thought he wanted to hear.
But the man kept shouting at me,
and I couldn’t stop staring at the reflection
of the studio lights on his head.
I think my feelings were wrong.
Then the audience laughed at me and we
cut to a commercial.
When we returned, I was back in the audience again,
watching the show.
The world blinks.
The world blinks
and it is awake,
awake in the dark
beneath History’s load,
Clawing pine to splinters
as the air runs out.
* puff *