Wednesday, November 02, 2011


Exemplary, mindless, up to date epicene
figures shunting around each other into
the shadows, out of the sun.

Discarded people grumbling in long lines
left behind like junk washing machines,

(or “warshing” as my grandma says).

They stand upright with their bi-pedal
locomotion, thumbs, beautiful scars,
addictions, and imaginations.

Resting, propped up like old shovels
with burnt handles.
Car trunks held together by bungee cords,
red tape on the brake light.

It has been extraordinary hiding below
the belts of decency; the inhabitants
cry and cry.

Solace like picnics behind an unstained
privacy fence.

Glimpses of sleepy heads swimming,
splashing in dreams.
No coast guard for nightmares.

A beacon. A lighthouse by the rocks
lock a fogged vision. A turbulent
arrangement of horns and whistles for

the hellacious carnation monument.
Like a blooming moon pulling tides,

the water wrestles willingly, relentlessly
with lunacy and lust.


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