Saturday, July 26, 2008

leaving two fragments of a shadow
to pry awry with the mirror’s reflection
whoever lost his mindful measuring cup
may suit these plastic eyes, in a glass jar of ceramic
attitude, she and him fought the roles played
by and by the drips from the oak tips laid
and layered along the winter strands, the withering
snow sands caress wild willows left before
my childhood memories, my grandparents farm
is now overloaded with rural shame, and in machinic
like perishables soaking the sewers with well
contracted out and built worth, approaches to
an ancient underestimation… we may have always
had our history, they’re just working their wealth
so as to burn our memories, capitalizing on small
H history so, cause it needs a template, refinement,
justification, and why, why can’t I walk down the
streets in my city and yell like the mentally aware,
why can’t I face up to the real live free market.
may my poverty one day imbue me to steal from
you, rich motherfucker, cause it’ll never be the same
for you, no matter how many times you contract out
your soul, the fictive nuances of validation will give
presence where it was never due, and love you like
a paid lover should, cause you’re only worth the hour.

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