Tattoos in Mayberry

51,305 poems read


Again, we're at war.
what's the score?
Have we tallied the dead
before killing some more?
Men of the cloth place blessing bandages on social shotgun wounds
We draw real blood in battle
Can't we do better?
It's been called a jungle out there?
A jungle is ancient, organic, and orderly.
Finishing school in the jungle is eat
not be eaten.
Eventually, we all get sucked into this wood chipper.
I write poetry desperately trying not to be consumed by it. Sucked down
the hungry gullet of it
opening my veins
Be an asset to big money mavens
fearing the jaws of the vortex.
I made plans to be a lawyer, maybe move on to politics
to personally shield myself from the vortex.
I finally realized I'd be paying Peter to Rob Paul
So Peter could pay his devil's advocate.
What a grand bargain.
Perhaps, with this strategy,
 I could snare a trophy wife,
who'd bore me scrubbed, rosy cheeked, children.
Cannon fodder for a greater treachery.
sanctioning oceans of grief, rivers of blood,
huge parcels of sorrow.  .
 medication with auto- refill to assuage
residual guilt.
Guilt for grandfathering in bloody,
ungenerous, jack boot
laws good at killing.
Laws of Attrition
laws keeping you out.
Laws laid down in a foreign tongue.
Where white has the right
and money is might.

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