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 ...
