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People were always
Dying to get in, or
Dying to get out.
Nobody ever wanted
To be where they were—
And it was always that way—
It was A Tale of Two Cities.
Cruel and hostile, broken
From birth—The bread
When shared, had long since spoiled.
So left were the people’s
Disgruntled denial, who’d sacrifice
Even their own mothers love—for lies—
Because, the truth was tough
and too hard to swallow.
And it was never their fault.
But neither was it His.
With all stones cast
There’s a pot still boiling
And a kettle left black
There’s a house still standing
With thinly cracked glass
There’s a kink in the line
With a reel still intact
There’s a spell in the ether
Waiting to be cast
With all stones thrown
There’s a hole full of flesh
There’s a crack in the arrow
There’s an angry protest
Each body a story, color, and time
Each arrow head sharpened, pristine, and divine
Each voice becomes voiceless, estranged, and unkind
With all stones turned
There lies not a soul
The truth is but squalor
Results are annulled
In a garden of daisies
Rest youthful and old
A graveyard of rubble
for silver and gold?
if it’s all
sex, love
and war
then where we stand
is better, for
what it’s worth
the things we carry
lies, lore
even drugs, barely
rock and roll
our sundry hearts
whose spirits lurk
dear Joan of Arc,
if it’s all
been heaven sent
then hear me now
as I repent,
tied together
at the stake
a Sid and Nancy
sealed fate,
but dare I ask
what you desire
if and when
they light my fire,
come on, come on
make it quick
like silver I’ve
two dimes that’s it,
nothing more
and nothing less
dear lizard king
feel this
music sung
inside my heart
sailing on
a Noah’s Ark,
and in a cage
twisted, tangled
two minds race
they jingle jangle,
pulling teeth
and gumming glass
spitting blood
and skipping mass
for if it’s all
sex, love
and war
then know the reasons
worth fighting for
Fill me with whiskey,
I’ll spill some truth.
Fill me with time and no one,
and I have filled pages with reason.
Reason enough to explain the lies
I tried to convince myself true.
My most honest fiction, in truth
is all that I can do.
We
don’t
genuinely
love
the stranger
on the corner,
on the television,
at work,
on the daily news.
We
get
used
to them
like they
get used to us,
to being liked,
to being lied to,
to being accepted.
We
wonder
why they
have it so good,
why we can’t quite get it straight,
why the stranger
on the corner, can’t get his act together,
why the camera’s won’t turn off,
we wander as they wonder.
As they wander, we wonder.
Words Of An Average White Male 