Mythville

The Fear Fleet

Fumbling around the room for an echo,

in the dark, with the 3 a.m. armies of amnesia,

searching all over the abode for reasons

why the tragedies of the earth disown us

Do we have giant signs on our heads

reading, "You are invisible now, so disappear?"

Do we have clay earns before our feet,

our bowels in jars, our ears, clipped

and ready for some marketplace in space?

Did we gain some unearthly wisdom

somewhere along the way, where our

mothers and fathers, unaware, at first,

but only now, just now

are currently unwilling to admit ...

with great force, delusional furies:

"We have sold our sons and daughters

down the river and this is what they deserve?"

If hope is turned to treason because truth

is delivered by a generation of unmasked

men and women who no longer fit 

into black voids of paranoia,

while still more others in tornado-fed towns,

Recession Era seas of discomfort,

for some, a cultural clutter fuck

of sea sickened pony rides, anthrax hides,

sent by gravitational waves into debt,

madness, suicide, murder, perpetual self-doubt?

I caught the echo and for just a moment

the unquiet winds have spoken, the water talks,

the birds speak my name and the mouth that roars

says, "No more. No! No more! You have made

a pig sty for your plunders, they do not make you happy,

nor do they serve purposes you sing

of on your sunny Sundays of stadiums,

of cars gone mad into circles, of churches

filled with grey and chiseled unified field

faces of treasure hunters, ex-colonels driving

summer cutting lawn mowers chasing

wild grass growing at double-time at over-the-edge

speeds, flower rows grown overnight into forests

of whites, yellows, purples, blues and reds and blood."

"We are here. We want to live. You had your chance

and left a mess and so now, go on, go on, little doggies ...

"Go on!"

Fumbling, again. For echoes. Ping ping, ping, ping ...

Ping ...