this was supposed to be a short poem

organized and ready to go
ready to go
and waiting to write
waiting to write
nothing important
you know all my stories
no more school bus dreams
or songs of birds and bumblebees
failure to conceive
as another purple morning
strings me along
and the male persona
is decimated
like worn slippers
waiting for christmas

cruel rules
cast out
no leaders
no blues

falling falling falling
into another empty coffee cup
too tired to sit up
throw up
or give up
plugged in, charged up
and then what?
we wait
wait for the grand symphony
of human interaction
throwing souls about
and crying on wasted shoulders
as we preach levels of integration
and curse the code of moderation
is it divination or devastation ?

too much of this
and not enough of that
sometimes it comes so easy
and other times
there is no line that can save you
until finally
death seems a suitable alternative

i’ve traded in my bullets for books
i use dictionaries as ammunition
because words wielded well
are more powerful than any gun
the mind of a misfit
is stolen and burned
the ashes blown
by calculated winds
are forming something new
and if you look real closely
you’ll see the ancient mother
carrying an inverted crucifix
and laughing in the distance



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