A kind of work in progress…
The things they carried as they walked walked walked from Vietnam to the upper east Side and onto the cold bare hardwood of your bedroom floors were the same. Backs bent and crooked with the same burdens that they came with. However much you suck the cock of justice, it will still be blind.
A brown wilted flower stem bud and leaf reaches from Buddhas distended belly like a slithering umbilical cord, trying in vein to make its way back, circling and spiraling out of control, to its mother, nature.
The young people stand, locked in hipster coffee houses, reciting poems of bland feeling of love and trapped. They write of the sorrows that they themselves invent, of society and of republicans. bland tasteless and all the same. While few people exist with the blind passion, so heavy that it sinks them into the cracks of art. Making it so they can’t enlighten because the light is to dark. Knowledge too heavy. With poems that don’t know rhyme but have a rhythm. That kick your ass and drag you through the gutter of what is real.
The all seeing and the all knowing eye of American capitalism staring down from the socket of god, red heavy-lidded veined and stoned with the dead mans dope. Only the funeral homes will benefit from the sorbet sky, their velvet seats heavy and creaking with the skeletons of compassion and unity.
