WANING, THE FURY
Everywhere I try to turn, something
stands in the way : blockage and infernal
needs, designated catcalls calling my name.
There's no fury like ferocious, as obstacles
rise in the way. My pencils have no points;
new scratches along paper make tears instead
of words. If I could sit in one place for another
hundred years, maybe I'd find some satisfaction
then. Reading, Writing. Arithmetic?
-
The people in the Lotto store are buying soda
and cigarettes. I can sense them a mile away.
They drive haphazardly in, in their 20 year
old battered cars, listing and crooked and
dented. Their loud radio plays, something
demented. How did this ever get to be, that
we've arranged an entire sub-culture to take
root in rotted urban landscapes?
-
Sweatpants and pig culture combine to make
a place. They're loud and invigorating with
each other, in a haphazard and hurried way.
With their subsidized phones and welfare ways,
they probably geta check ever other morning.
Government supports gladly the lower rungs,
to keep them in their soulful places.
It's the first of a month again!
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