Concerto for blunt instrument

An irregular heartbeat from d.o. to you. Not like a daily kos, more like a sometime sloth. Fast relief from the symptoms of blogarrhea and predicated on the understanding that the world is not a stage for our actions, rather it is a living organism upon which we depend for our existence.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

In The City of Homes

The City of Homes is a sea of tarps
blue as far as the eye can see
nothing much left above
ten feet, a hundred yard dash
through the heart
a trampled turnpike to the
next victims, eastward
striped and flattened trees
instant endless barrens beyond
the city of homes where
nothing’s for dinner, where
foreclosure takes a whole new meaning
where shattered glass soaked
beds provide no rest, where
damaged toys make no noise
sirens fill still air and flashing lights
consume the sleepless nights
here in the city of homes
a gyre once ground up sound
churning up the river and
everything else on its way
to a news item near you or
down south or in Missouri,
Japan, anywhere really and
more often than you’d think
the weatherman or woman would
care to mention that
science has established beyond
a reasonable doubt, reasonable
being the operative term, limits
being needed by the way, we
live reckless on the planet, in
this city of homes where a
flick of the switch no longer works
and the next special report
like yesterday’s headline is
just like tomorrow’s sad tale
in everyone’s city of homes.

- June, 2011
Springfield, Massachusetts


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