Where Will We Be Tomorrow

We ask
ourselves those spared of hell
where will we
be tomrrow every evening
wherever we
are surrounded by our tales
I ask it in
my situation like a shell
like a skull
around my plastic memory
two queen beds
one to sleep in one to write on
king of the castle
in this out-of-the-way hostel
we all invent
reasonings to fit our wanderings
today the why
is all about the incidentals
arrived by mistake
blame it on my mental map
stuck by accident
for how long I cannot tell
time ticks
by what sticks on the the wall after
throwing at it
new ideas poetical and postal
the world’s needs
in its broken and slivered state
leans to the fragile
deliverable in some pastel pill
with sip of absynthe
capable of altering the unwanted
aspects of the real
in a place marked non-viral
behind a fence
galvanized between flagpoles
little citadels
set up between killing fields
isolated from
what used to be our cities
our only friends
are distance and solar power
those of us
immune from the malady
through jibberish of cultish
literature in
escape from the rapine
the pestilence
the isolation the heavy toll
of having lost
the past mojo of mythical
the vast glory
of civilization now colonies
the size of hotels
every hundred or so miles
separated by
dark masticated countryside
deserted except
for herds of mutant villains
feeding on
each other like politicians
and profiteers
used to do in the raging days
before the withering
before the split and territorial
isolating of
homo futurus from the scaly
homo reptilio al carbon
without faces
without mercy or language
here and now
luckily with a maintained well
I prepare for
others who will come after
writing my
version of the old skills
mere survival from evil
chain-shaking from bells
holed up in
these temporary quarters
picking at the
scabs spreading to my gills
the words of the prophets
echoing over
these retarded foothills
bring my bow of gold
bring me my arrows of desire
before my spear oh clouds unfold
before my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from the righteous fight
my sword still in my hand
until in America’s green and pleasant land
Jerusalem is built
and so we talk over the radio
and so we keep
the islands clean and quarantined
and so we keep
the language insulated from scourge
and so we hide
in our electrified campsites
and I write
in the voice of the angry seers
and the love
goes out from here to fill
the stray and stranded earth of ours
and I sleep for weeks at a time
during which the poets rule
the world of perfect paradigm.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
This entry was posted in poem, poetry, song and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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