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Writer's picturexwaxinglyricalx

After America

Updated: Oct 7, 2020

The ping

comes clear through the murky inter-babble;

The great division!

19 into 45.

I begin to knit

like a polluted saint;

threading fragments unforgotten

- worn balls hoarded

in the memory shed -

insults and lies

and the ghost-bones of icons

Into bits of love and pain

springing up, these possibilities

like mushrooming bollards

and emptying out

like sink-holes.

The dichotomies collide

in the cluttered void

Like dazed motes

Searching for companions

In the muttering din;

the carrying din wafting

through what feels like

the wake for God

cobbled together

At the very last minute,

By fiddlers and scribblers

on the wet deck of America.

The music begins to unwind,

We lean in our ears...

Too many frets, notes

in microtonal huddles

crunching into

The sucking, suckering hum

of the news cycle, breathed

like oily water

by grasping, groaning fish.

Choked on excess

Like Jimi the great,

The sound, unwound

like garroting wire

strung insidiously

across the path

that sneaks the edge

of a cul-de-sac

full of howl

and empty of dreams.

And yet, we continue:

News leaks like pus

from a trussed-up corpse

sucking in oxygen

breathing out pestilent vapors.

And yet, we continue.

The hole-poked bag

Leaks its unseen stuff;

the slow deflate

To sag and wrinkle;

The star falls from the spangled mobile

Landing with a rolling tinkle

On the cradling grave, conflating

Life with death and crease with crinkle.

Meanwhile, Lincoln is stone.

The stammered yawp

Dribbles from the Jaundiced Diminisher

With every bark and boil-burst,

Every foot-crunching

Twist of cigarette

On cathedral floor,

Every cheer from the undenounced,

every ball of hunger

rolling through the huddles masses

gathering their skeletons

like snow to a growing boulder.

Un-fictioned into farce

And shadow,

An eagle pulls in its wings,

and feeling nothing,

hurtling like a plucked and boiled turkey,

it gives its thanks

in passing hard

into the side of a bloodless mountain.

But most don't see it.

Heads down in distanced gathering

trying to fathom the significance

of point four two

recurring.






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