Friday, April 2, 2010


Many have a calling
when out calls a louder shout:
cops drawing pistols for a sting,
waving shiny things they say'll sell out

up in your face, "Take it,
would you sir?"
"Well, I can't not take it,
we're pals, we'll play the shopper"

and the sky stops swirling,
gives one glance at blue,
then dash to the rail hurling
as sea angers, bobbing buoys,

and you won't say
"things aren't even worth it,"
but, "where's another, it'll stay,
give it or there'll be a fit"

all while jets fly
through black flack,
inside hints a "why?"
that would see things taken back

but not even that,
stuff still won't notice the mountain,
will cover firing squad's rat-a-tat-tat,
unsticken a crack full of sand,

and shut off weak voices
that might renue the sphynx,
build up for-the-sakes-of purpose,
close these storms as light drinks.

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