a poem for today, 18 May 2012
[a word-sorted sonnet of seven sentences and its image]
Stop.
The structure of the world was built by the dead, they were paid in wages, and when the wages were spent and they were dead in the ground, what they had made continued to exist, these cities, roads and factories are their calcified bones.
Flirtinis all around.
Pretty soon, the only people we'll represent are those fortunate enough to possess the luxury of a simple and uncomplicated oppression.
The metaphorical mind precedes the analytical.
Standing there with the scent of dead insects and cheap perfume, I went ahead and did it just the same.
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