So stifled, I think I’ll take a rifle, shoot it into the air to scare all these disciples.
Who argue over trifles, and stew over Bibles, like those lawyer trolls who learn how to label losers liable.
Whether they’re alive or dead.
That said, I’m glad I’m well-read and so I seek science, now prying into the minds of the Mayans.
They were so defiant, yet always paid penance, they had the common sense of a giant.
When you look into their history, I’m tying their bones to a mentality of some religious piety that was enraptured by mortality. Consumed by the rapture of depravity.
But this proclivity produces pithy poetry so I pray for a preacher’s pity or I ponder on the purpose of my prose and my posterity so I can wind up primary on the polls.

who knows? I may turn my stock into gold! Clean up corruption the way a street is cleaned with snow!
Let it blow! Hi de ho!

I’m screaming to the demons of winter, take me back to my childhood of splinters
Small-minded stutters, plastic rudders, nothing in the world that could hinder or bind me save udders.

I’m scheming to bring about a social coma induced by soma so that I can find some meaning whilst dreaming. But now that I’m awake, shake me from what I’ve seen! Bring me a steaming cup of java so this caffeine can pump reality through a screen, filter it into an
[Robot]: organized, compartmentalized
cubicle! Scrape my cuticles to make me beautiful! And I’ll be dutiful to my country and to my wife and to freedom!
[Normal]: Free-dumb! The Sum of all Fears sequestered in the tears of the Oppressed. Dressed down in dimness with Olympic politicians casting a shadow over their grimness. Urging them to be purging their souls for a brand new stereo or television set so they can be predictable. To make the people stutter with tourette’s, It’s despicable! How can they argue when you mine out their education? How can they sue for rights when you’ve blighted their imagination? You’ve taught them prostration without dignity while losing your own humility. Ground their dreams into a useful futility! A mind-set in utility. Yet all water condenses and fences are still made from metal.
You can’t trust rust and when it’s in the soul,
like corporal corruption,

And when moisture murmurs between anguished breaths then those small deaths never, ever settle. Then the water boils within the kettle and the toils of the populace kiss and caress the capital C capitalists. Dancing in the rain from the humanity of it all, they are all killed by kindness. For drowning is the sweetest of the big-deaths even if it is from the presses of the dispossessed.

by Michael Cody Clarke
All Rights Reserved