There's a punitive meaning
to the words
corrosive fall out.
I consider the frogs that
hop off of my tangled tongue
to be high-end merchandise
like I'm buying my civil rights
to a twenty-first century
free style, existential photograph
taken by myself.
Every mark ever made on paper, plastic, stone and wood
could never've been possible if
the Earth wasn't scavenged and then glued
on the hopeful lines
of engine faced infants.
Those calamity clad comrades of commerce
that proposed a common purpose
for angry anglos who
took staples from the natives,
altering apples and allowing
insects to make wastelands.
These men
and women
are guilty.
Their judges are the books
of known history,
those with scarred backs
and torn pages,
whose knowledge is nettled
in the lava flows from the Eocene
that developed the illustrious islands
of our fluted ancestors.
Our instinctual sense of good and bad governance,
was not created through past seeds of humanity
on the African grassland
but on the backs of slaves
and the creation of currency.
Our break in communication with Nature,
when the balanced procession
of feminine and masculine
began a tip-toed introduction
of what is said to be a distorted reality
where hundreds of thieves rule billions of disasters.
and the arrogant extortion of children and women
are an accepted taboo in the most civilized nations
We could have freedom from these atrocities
if we were to accept what's audible and apparent,
the desperations of the world allude to be our focus
but are evidently our barricaded distractions.
We are a hemispheric world ruled by the brains'
addiction to dopamine and serotonin.
I fill these needs through
love and cigarettes,
thought and action,
communities and distant connections.
Breathe my brain tells my lungs,
Breathe.
