Sunday Night Dinner
The driveway is empty and cold
except for the spot covered by
the lone newspaper on the block.
A quick flip through this week's headlines
find that we are made fools of Global Warming's
effect on Icebergs. The headlines
of budget crisis' cruse and divide our
table like last week's collection call
about our Macy's dining room furniture bill.
These stories, give way to
tender moments we share as our
tiny child holds his head steady like
the Sears Tower -wait- that is just a
memory, renamed for some corporation shelling
out promises for America.
TV, radios, even Windex attempt
to clean our latest familiar transgressions of
trusting one another. These situations
force us to evaluate our communication
as archaic and unreliable like the gold standard
debate in last week's New York Times.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Draft #4
Our Hitchock Childhood
Though we're nowhere near Mount Rushmore,
little snot-nosed pre-teens,
still we imagine Cary Grant granting us
the train's commotion, the great prize
of our coming here.
For here is not the many-storied
buildings of London or even the lost
and decrepit tenements of New York.
No. Here, is my neighbor's house,
which we're tee-peeing.
Bombs of two-ply
hang limply over Spanish Moss
like sheets over a miss-sized bed.
We move around to avoid
the watchful eyes of the night birds.
Sally contemplates
the act of malice as
the Malathion of her childhood
forces her to reconsider time
spent in trivial arguments.
The marauders return
under cover of yellow street lights
as they avoid the gaze
of "mother" as they climb
back in the safety on Bates street.
Though we're nowhere near Mount Rushmore,
little snot-nosed pre-teens,
still we imagine Cary Grant granting us
the train's commotion, the great prize
of our coming here.
For here is not the many-storied
buildings of London or even the lost
and decrepit tenements of New York.
No. Here, is my neighbor's house,
which we're tee-peeing.
Bombs of two-ply
hang limply over Spanish Moss
like sheets over a miss-sized bed.
We move around to avoid
the watchful eyes of the night birds.
Sally contemplates
the act of malice as
the Malathion of her childhood
forces her to reconsider time
spent in trivial arguments.
The marauders return
under cover of yellow street lights
as they avoid the gaze
of "mother" as they climb
back in the safety on Bates street.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Draft #3, Week 13
Sunday Night Dinner
We are made fools of lastest news
of Global Warming. Last week's newspaper cruses and divides
Our table once again with meaningless election results.
Our mouths rap with nonsense, and
hating nonsense, or sense, like last week's collection call
about our Macy’s dining room furniture bill.
Yet, tender moments we share as
Our tiny child holds his head steady
Like the Sears Tower-wait-the Sears Tower
is just a memory like Paul Harvey’s Rest of the Story.
Windex bottles of Meth attempt
to clean our latest familiar transgressions of
trusting one another. but even drugs force us
to evaluate our methods of communication
as archaic and unreliable.
We are made fools of lastest news
of Global Warming. Last week's newspaper cruses and divides
Our table once again with meaningless election results.
Our mouths rap with nonsense, and
hating nonsense, or sense, like last week's collection call
about our Macy’s dining room furniture bill.
Yet, tender moments we share as
Our tiny child holds his head steady
Like the Sears Tower-wait-the Sears Tower
is just a memory like Paul Harvey’s Rest of the Story.
Windex bottles of Meth attempt
to clean our latest familiar transgressions of
trusting one another. but even drugs force us
to evaluate our methods of communication
as archaic and unreliable.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)