Put in the Oven
Are we baking under
florescent lights?
wasted
wasted away
to day-glo skeleton
colorized bones
sell me out
wake the dead police
they zombies
not for brains
for order
for order & honor & duty
I am hand shackled
to dying trees nobody sees
nobody care
those concrete monoliths now
steel framed
invincibly framed
stare down on high
from techno-heaven throne
where data goes
down
collected
know all
redact edit binge
the modem-brain-CPU
Casting long fiber-optic
shadows
over ruined cities
over ruined heads
removed/euphoric
entitled
to grow under
artificial suns—
fortune teller
boxes stacked upside
down from heaven facing
earth like pyramid corpse
clouds of the infinite
sinking extra-dimensionally
into blue globed linear space
time limited vision reality
speaking in splintered images
they rupture the earth:
I
the past can be pointed to
from all sides
II
every photograph we have
of ourselves show faces
painted on
paper film skin
III
the future is an endless
tidal wave never to break
That it's haunted
nose straight
broke off
lost in the snow
of ages and that
happened long ago
that town died long ago
same scene
better circumstances
clear spring day and the
sound
of feet shifting through
grass
that sound from long before I
died
those angels playing
many dimmed smiles and
carefree eyes
found a soft fleshy
thing in
high grass it
was held together
like a raisin
had no discernible stench
that meadow went barren many
years ago
no one goes there anymore
the little girls and little
boys
are sure of one thing
they say that it's haunted;
they sing.
Tom
Pescatore can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman bridge
or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row. He might have
left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He maintains a poetry blog:
amagicalmistake.blogspot.com.
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