behind the sound of your own voice
if there is any sense
your fingers slice incisive points
eyes might be held
but yours look beyond
the debate may now be yours
but you feel, sadly, your own idea
deflate like a freshly used prick
open letter to mr. moore
I grew up to the immediate north of one of the first economically ruined cities of the Upper Peninsula of your home state (GM ,GM, GM), which once upon a time (ago) was an integral part (because animals with furs still refuse to get passports) of two countries that did not exist that became two cities that no longer speak French, which turned out to be my childhood home (sans Grand Funk but avec Phil Esposito) that subsequently died a different but equally sad (steel, steel, steel) manufacturing death.
I do not buy the American Dream (that as a child I was happy enough to have beamed illegally to the our, first on the block, colour TV, over the wide cultural divide of the river) and I gleefully admit to strongly disapproving (having sadly, aged) the continually misguided (please provide me with a stronger adjective) sic foreign policy that has been espoused by idiots (read: elected officials) controlling your country and forced upon the world for the last century or so (as the clock tics); but you, the person and not necessarily your views however nasally presented, have ideas (thought from the other side of the river!) that, sadly, or foolishly, or sagely get ignored by the ignorant but which I, minor poet, enjoy.
If I had ten bucks (hey they are at par now, na na na na boo boo) I would send it to you to save the world (mine, please) or buy two bottles of beer or some vodka, ok, food, because I (like half the world) haven't worked for half a decade (more cities forced to collective skinned knees and into tight coffins in anticipation). But money slips (coins, through the spaces and the naturally occurring cracks) out of my fingers as easily as election promises (soothing untruths) slip out of politician's (or their handler's) minds (how oxymoronic, as morons go) but, but, I do offer (first rights refusal: read payment) this poem. And poems are only worth what they are printed upon and this one is printed upon the internet ether (read: nothing).
Luckily (unlike everything else in the caving world) I've got nothing but time.
given that black holes consume
pull together all the stars
gas dust random atoms
giant ice crystals that roam forever until
given that each black hole
sucks and sucks
sucking in all
stars light even
(the gravity of it
questing minds thirst and burn to know
Peter Bracking tells tall tales. Earth point: Vancouver, Canada.
Words have been published by more than a dozen presses in four countries on two continents including: Maisonneuve; Merida Review; streetcake magazine; empty sink publishing; thrice fiction; Existere
The only occupation he regrets leaving is beach bum. Peter is the artistic director of Utter Stories.
Self aggrandizement: http://utterstories.wordpress.
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