Sunday, June 23, 2013


Under the raincross
The tears that fail to fall
we share a cough
in the pollution that never ceases
the roaring freight breaking up an otherwise still night
with horns that fracture the loyalties of this
forgotten realm

how have I come here?
What am I fighting- in this tragedy
Am I another player
Some bounding knight, some marching pawn
As we are all plainswalkers in this desert of queens
none are as useful as the hoof and talon
nothing is easy in the hot desert wind
chapping your face and hands into a submissive blue-collar slave.

Under the raincross
Oranges are crushed by vacant warehouses
Tweakers grift lawnmowers, bicycles and stereos
traffic asphyxiates all the dreams
nonexistent money strangles children of their futures
as if they had some other option to enlightenment
beyond the sale of their flesh
but I am not one to talk
 I cannot afford to shed water in this way

And we worship it,
Here; the bell and the glyph,
That never make any rain
Though we pray to them as if they could
As if all the deference in the world would save us
Begging for water in the name of some misplaced loyalty
The sound and the symbol cast their shadow
Fetishizing everything the burning heat touches
We don’t pray for water as much as we pray for cathartic tears

Remove us from the hurt that we bring upon each other.

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