Tuesday, April 19, 2005

One new poem...

Do the cutthroat, bring the inside death

What we are so sure of (our neatly packaged needs)
disappoints beyond the counter,
So we stop counting.

Images, accustomed and brutal, roil us.
We quiver,
out at an arms-length, conscientious regard
of our deplorable cousins;

We trim our opulent wicks
and declare ourselves healed.

We fulminate against atrocities we are sure we would never commit
(disregard is our passkey to safety).

Our rampant demons spit on our contradictions.
Everyone knows our comforts are products of their filthy wealth.

Kill our demons! We shout, or would, but rather
we pine earnestly for negotiations, and other niceties of language.
Our demons spit on our contradictions.

We cultivate derision and grope for compassion:
There is no contradiction in this, really.

We clamber for the high road, but what is there to do
When the high road crumbles out from under us?


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