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.
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 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.