the nine
Saturday, July 19th, 2014They sit in judgment,
among us but above us,
the law in their hands.
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They sit in judgment,
among us but above us,
the law in their hands.
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The tiny house grew
room by room, floor by floor, to
be a McMansion.
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“Haiku is my life.”
“I’m the realest bitch you know.”
“My eyes are up here.”
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Poetry is a
dead end. Perhaps a lute or
a beret would help.
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Why change, or even
pretend to change, when we all
know we share one fate?
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They would drive miles for
pie, then drive more miles homeward
discussing said pie.
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Around the corner
and down the hallway to the
big bowls of kibble.
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The celebration
of the unworthy in an
unironic sense.
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If it’s too nice a
day for class in April, it’s
a crime in July.
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A once special day
had become another date
on the calendar.
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Asphalt wet with a
leak. Precious water wasted
straight to the sewer.
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The lumpy couch, the
unmade bed, really any
napping place would do.
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A fresh coat would at
least cover up the rust spots
and hide all the mold.
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Barbecue pork, red
clay, honeysuckle, crawfish
boil, shotgun smoke.
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Coming to save the
day, not for humanity,
but for avarice.
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