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Literature
Grace
The hands that cast the mould that made the plough
that dug the dirt for crops to make the dough
that makes our bread - they let us grow.
The souls who drive the trucks each waking hour
from farm to store to shop give us our power -
it makes them dead - and we devour.
Each morsel grows from dirt to plant to food
we tear a piece and sell so it's construed
we do our bit - we don't - we just collude.
And while each toiler keeps us from our graves
so we keep them trapped in their enclaves,
to tell ourselves each night - we don't own slaves.
Literature
Spunion Gamble
October:
a shitstorm sober,
an overdose of
overdoses, disorder,
a postcard from
nowhere you want to be.
Believe me, the scenery
sucks, syringes sticking
up from heaps of ugly
dead leaves
twenty-somethings lining
sidewalks by the morgue
door, babies trading bodies for itty
bitty bottles of more
snow falling on wasted war-
torn faces glazes wide unblinking
eyes, white light erases
places, ages, life
flies away to where
I haven't got a clue but
I can't solve the problems
of insolvency by dissolving
decency- can you?
Literature
Right
Here's the bad news:
tomorrow
there will be a bird
on your doorstep.
Dead or dying, you think
it has something to do
with me. It does not.
There's the crux
you always think
the bird should rise up
and proclaim its killer,
its savior, should point out
which cat only watched and which
opened its mouth; which cat
is not a cat but a storm
or a window or another bird
and to be honest,
I would like these things too.
But it owes us only its death,
incapable of shaming
our compulsive involvement,
our need to make the bird
about ourselves.
You want to be jury
in an empty room. You want
to hold court
for every little thing
that makes you feel.
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
prompt response for SixWordStories (prompt = butter) (link here - Prompt Project: The Thing)
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Butter gets to live another day!