fast food

sometimes I wish to feed,
to feast upon ancient lean,
to chase the rabid instinctive,
the bolting reactive;
no thought to the herded or corralled,
as this is my sex,
and I tear at the flesh;
the flesh not fattened,
not readied for a cost efficient harvest,
and now I know why they call it game.

I have been in such a place,
molded and moved from one staging to the next,
and though not slaughtered and plated,
the milking has been thorough,
draining;
a near perfect dehydration,
and a withered , crumbling carcass blown away
by any passing gust,
and even then,
I have not evidently given enough;
more is required.

so now I thirst for blood pumped vibrant,
pulsing anew through every portal,
reaching out to the furthest trickle of every tributary;
searching, probing, pushing past boundary,
tentacles alive with curious abandonment,
tasking arteries yet to harden,
yet to jam with jaded sediment,
not worthy to be dredged clean.

is this lust for such meat primal?
a consciousness raised or lowered
to evoke such predatory cunning?
is this how empires are built,
how power is acquired,
devouring the quickest,
the brightest, the most elusive?
I crave such a hunt,
to track, to pursue,
but alas there is no longer much bounce
left to the pounce,
and so armies are required,
posses to bring the prey to bear,
and I cannot afford their salaries.

overcast...

sometimes it rains too hard,
and more than leaves are battered and bruised;
porous absorptions overflow,
and the wrong cup runneth over.
visual depths cluttered,
audio receptors bombarded,
bellies stuffed--force fed,
and our search for release becomes an adhesive,
a glue to stick fast to whatever temporarily relieves;
a group dynamic demographically focused
for maximum participation,
and the healing becomes the addiction,
and the cycle continues until the cycle becomes the standard,
and it is worshipped,
unfaltering, unwavering, and unquestionable,
until something breaks like that collective psyche,
and a new standard is set,
and maybe downpours will then turn to drizzle.

the obit...

and it was said,
that I was pronounced dead,
and with this news ,
I sang few blues.
I read about it all
in the next morning paper,
with coffee and toast;
a long-haul life that didn't taper
off with tales to boast
of conquests,
or pillages,
or plunders;
results from ego-testicle blunders
... it just ended.
was I hit by a truck?
my demise just such luck?
or was I more insidiously struck?
with cancerous insurgencies,
slow, less immediate emergencies
eating away at the core,
delicately balanced, painless--no sore,
or complaints;
alarm-less sounds
making their rounds,
and then I just shut down
like when the sidewalks roll up downtown.
But all that was said
from what I had read,
was that I was just dead.

no dialtone...

I'm not sure why we punish;
the will for retribution is deep seated,
trenched back to the farthest beginnings of our time.
It morphs into a lust;
a never quenched thirst for perceived justice
via retaliation, escalated by the mechanics
of hate and deceit.
our life-guides tell us different,
to turn the other cheek,
but practicing what is preached,
is not what we do.
institutional sadism;
sanctioned by the moral collective,
based on revenge for disobedience,
disrespect,
distaste,
disallowance,
and the final punishment for an unpaid phone bill;
disconnection...

I, constituent...

one day I called on my representative;
I am by default, a constituent.
I was told though my opinion was not in the majority,
it was taken under consideration.
I didn't want to change anything,
just to raise a point.
then facts and figures blurred,
polished manipulatives accentuated,
and I left inadequately advocated;
seemingly alone, but not really.
I was just the one that asked.

the bridge...

a schism;
fractured deep,
crevassed jagged cliffs,
treacherous with lurking snags, and pitfalls;
vortexes offering a wedge to be trapped in,
or between;
and neither plane attempts to traverse the fissure;
neither dominant hand reaches out,
and yet there is a lust for access,
and envy from have-nots,
and fear and loathing the driving force.

the manipulative meme;
a patriotic fervor centered logo;
a brand, and the bandwagons circle
while the refugee wants out,
and the immigrant wants in,
and the fissure mysteriously seals,
but something was given and taken
without permission;
so retaliations and retributions are enacted,
and a new underclass swells,
then bursts,
and a bridge is swept away,
or was there ever one in the first place?

holocaustic...

mid-morrow down riverside way,
that's where we'll be in line;
for rations proportioned tickle-down
are better than nothing,
and nothing is prevalent since the mountain blew.
the mud flows where bad,
but when the sound fell,
and the water retaliated,
that's when everything became submerged,
and unless it was in a can,
forget it.
most of us lost or never knew the art of the hunt,
and those with guns now only threaten and take,
rather than searching for meat.
foraging picks the countryside clean;
so many roaming homeless and starving;
stories, bad ones
of burnings and mutilations from the south.
can't imagine what seattle is like;
people packed in cages like snared animals;
maybe we are better off here,
maybe mid-morrow down riverside way
we will get flour or some kind of grain.
we see the air drops from east of the mountain;
never finding anything that was dropped.
quite a few new soldiers in the valley
with corporate logos on their jumpsuits.
they look well fed.

the skirmish...

entrenched within our own personal embattlements,
a pox upon their house;
salvos lobbed from mortars encamped,
aligned with weaponry enhanced and revamped,
aimed with deadly precision,
annihilation the impossible mission
the high ground is what we espouse.

acceptable loss calculated,
refugee status relegated,
a war torn plain lies desolate;
who did what first?
only blood will quench that thirst
and drank only from the cup immaculate.

Be ye Hatfield or be ye McCoy,
my guess the casualty count is high;
as tolls are exacted,
pleadings for mercy protracted,
and finally...
a collective unconditional surrendered sigh.

And now what to do with all the new found spoils,
another yard sale?

the hunt...

I have thought many a time about such things,
about being in the dawn or twilight,
or somewhere in-between,
and how it is I got there.
I don't think people hit their daily strides all at the same time;
mine coming in spurts:
little energy spikes, emotional buzzes, adrenaline rushes,
and then fallen trees, collapsed bridges,
and time becomes a place to be in,
not a barometer for the mood of the moment.
I seem to prefer the gray zones where hues are softened;
not painfully bright,
but with the potential of being so,
or they have run their course and are simmering down;
audibly noted tones being of the same mind under such circumstances,
not all the way on or off.
Moments such as these are accentuated by the days first and last cigarette,
or would be if I smoked,
as sensitivities and sensibilities are built
or disassembled in these places of transition;
bordered absolutes of light or dark,
on or off are muddled with potentials and probabilities,
and definitive exclamations are preachings for another choir,
in another place.

disintegration...

Tragedy;
a self perceived drama,
and my hand has run out of fingers;
designator digits I use to count the accumulation of loss;
permanently attached reminders, lists,
bulleted accounts of heartbreak, shame, betrayal, abandonment,
and death;
gently twisted to grasp the pen of the unforgiven.

Fingers once used to give pleasure;
to fondle, to stroke, to caress,
and create sounds from instruments;
harmonious movements, passionate synchronizations,
and now they are but numbered stubs;
posts without connected railings;
no pastures to line, no fields to divide, no gardens to protect,
and that is the tragedy.

Skin once thick, supple, and resilient;
wrapping, holding, absorbing, and expelling;
and now it sags with folds and creases;
reminders collected over time when boundaries were stretched;
over-exposed and the radiated residuals blemish like rust;
creeping, eroding;
a corrosion beyond caustic.

Organs once filters, cleansers;
purifying pumping stations offering-up rejuvenation,
expelling poisons self-inflicted or by happenstance,
and now they approach inoperable from bombardments of inflammations,
unable to preform duties taken for granted,
and as they shut down,
so does and so goes the unforgiven...