POEM: Anonymous Concrete

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By Thursday, Feb 2 Arts & Entertainment

Touch I say

Touch and go listen to the empty tin can rattle.

 

Smudge the wedding confetti washed against the curb

Smudge the ruffled coats pinned to the ground

 

Laced in booze

Talking to themselves with bitch ass sharpies.

 

Hear the wind whip yester-daze news

Mingled and mangled in alternative facts all the way to fake.

 

Hear the streets choke with beginners luck.

Here the fear printed in papers believing

 

Passengers move with hidden cargos

Strapped on a sleeve or photo shopped to believe

 

What is built to survive requires religion and fences

Before another bombed out child dies before ever being conceived.

 

Hear the click clicking heels of the bankers play thing

Watch a gold chain grip on his limp wet wrist

 

Wind up wind down

pull away the chords and let the blinds go

 

As fake austerity sets in with frozen eyes

Blinking in reptilian greed

 

Hear the deaf groan for sound

Dangling on a buckle in remote control

 

Dangling in a world on digitalized pendulum clocks

tick tock tock tick

 

Half past ready to drop

With ever approaching speed.

 

Hear the rush of the honored grown man vomit

sick from lack of welfare and unpayable insurance fees

 

There seems to be oh so much and yet oh so little

time to send us all back to who knows where?

 

*

 

Touch I say

Touch and go listen as young girls leave their chalk rooms

 

Dressed up skirts about to be stained on the grass

In the locker or behind the proverbial bike shed

 

Again the question of importance before mother arrives

Tightly dressed in heels an older version yet far less tamed

 

Mimicking mindless adverts

and the bankers play thing.

 

*

 

Fashion changes

Fashion beats

 

the chance to enslave foreign rag dolls

to bend and stretch around tattooed cocks

 

ringed in vice

with a royal flush

 

a slave trade without borders

oh yes fashion changes fashion beats

 

*

 

Touch

Touch and go

 

Listen to the flag rope hitting the flag pole

no flag is in sight and yet we all wave

 

hear the flag rope hit the flagpole

perhaps it has been stolen or missing in action

 

Here the shop windows are no longer dressed

To rumors of a bargain and much needed goods

 

Offering false promises to the promised child

whose broken lips press against shattered glass

 

here again on a bench in the park

derelict men pipe over old print

 

reminiscing oh to be youthful they wheeze

unable to acknowledge germ warfare starts with a sneeze

 

here a hotel room is no safer than my pockets

here I can taste the salt on pickled fish eyes

 

here I have no time to notice is it rain is it snow

as I tighten the collar around my sore throat

 

here again no time to question what is really important

as a manicured fist punches out a mechanized time clock

 

for the very last time

before anonymous concrete

 

spews onto the cracked pavement

buckled and used up with a question mark grinning

 

and the anchor lets go

and I stand here naked with my poems

 

breathing bring it on mother fuckers

this is our America.


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