Shaded shadows shift
With listless forms
In their wormy directions
Undetected by the scaring
Fire of light’s delight.
They move incognito
With vibrant libido
Tinged by the ring
Of early spring
And the backstreet dreams
Of mid-teens flying
On wings to unforeseen
Memories.
Park the car
Don’t wonder where you are
It ain’t hard to find
An axe to grind
From hillbilly ties
To trust fund lies
It all belies the teased out lines
Of someone in suit and ties
With wrinkled face lines
Bemoaning corporate profits
Spinning tops
And lollipops.
What happened to hop on pop?
If revolution is your hope for new constitutions
You best be moving to some
European Union
Because the workers movement has
Been put to pieces
Be Reese’s and leases on life
Past sixty-five
When it all stops to rhyme,
You feel it fall out of time
And we are left in our own
Chicken coop mind
But that is all fine at least
We can still move on down the line
The luckless mother ducks
See futures without clucks or fucks
Bespoke by the tears they tuck between
Their ears as wasted years skate down
To vacant houses, empty blouses
And dinner party’s clownless.
But at least she found this sympathy
In her industry.
Her mothers milk
Is of a new ilk with self sufficient
Always with it, independent, ready to
Defend it, never better, Christmas sweater, all weather feminist flavors
Which no baby could ever savor
So leave our Lady Luck, lady liberty, mother duck to be whatever they don’t
Want to be. To wade in, knee deep.
Flying fists at headless mists whip
By from the guy who you new in
Junior high. Half dimwitted but with it enough
To find himself in cuffs, he bluffs and scuffs. He’s real rough stuff.
Tried and true, black and blue, guns and glue.
It’s all a ruse. He could choose to embrace the boos or booze and use his
Useless tools but the world has past him by, with a wink a smile,
A man with a glitter of guile
Signed a paper to make him walk a country mile
Just to lick the soot on his boot he might even
See his knee with a college degree.
But that all he’ll get.
The systems sick with some ageless ailment
That wages wars on wages and never bothers
To turn pages for day shift, make shift, give a little
Bit to wade in workers left to jerk their own smirk
From the faces of plaques given out like pastries.
But it’s not new to me.
At least we breathe,
And breathe,
And breathe.
and