Evidence of Evidence of
Life
The hands of yesterday
are no friend of mine.
I am no sad maniac.
I am no happy addict.
I am not content
or
disappointed.
All I know is -
when I get off work
my shoulder bones
hunch forward in
unruly pain.
I also feel the haggle
of an empty stomach
begging to be fed.
Instead -
I introduce
Vodka
to
Orange Juice
and
they have a racial
war
in a small plastic cup.
I’m sorry belly of death
I have only
more pain
for you.
They Paint Lies
They rest under Ivory trees.
They speak of strawberry patches
and life.
They use words long forgotten
except by
the snobs.
They annoy me with their ways.
With their irrelevant pencil.
I rest in a room of clutter.
I speak of spoiled milk
and death.
I use words that I use
in everyday
conversation.
I annoy them with my ways.
But if I did write like them
it would not be toilet bowls of
lies,
it would be something like
this:
The rays of a candle light corridors
long darkened by endless torment.
Men have died to claim to be martyr's.
Martyr's have died to claim to be men.
My fingers concluded long ago
they had no desire to write about either.
Spirits tiptoe in sandpaper houses.
And even in death, they still complain
about the blisters on their feet.
I’ll acknowledge now –
that wasn’t a good
mockery -
it contained too much truth
and life.
So…
This is my advice to those who think
we are still living in the 1800's:
Your high-class vocabulary means
nothing without life experiences.
You need to STOP
sitting at home
reading
thesauruses.
Go outside,
find a dark alley
and walk down it.
Because there,
more than anywhere
else -
you will find
life.
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