The grasses and soil
are sunburnt and dehydrated,
like this crunchy Nest on my head,
once saturated
with scented oils and perfumes,
double-knotted
with sprays of plumes.
Malnourished, the rivers have
dried to dirt.
Screaming, yet inert,
they're begging for reprieve
from the lawnmower seive--
It'll cut them off, bag them up,
vacuum package their meager--what?
-Simultaneously-
the land-scaping company
demands that -serendepity-
be our goal this fiscal quarter.
We're ground to powder in the mortar.
We snort mortality
off this Mirrored Reality.
Taken back and back again,
I can't help but procrastinate
in choosing who I wish to be
from being neither here, nor me.
Just like the clouds deny us rain:
repitition without results,
and dreadlocks are my Mane.
They're holding It by the nape of Its neck,
refusing Its escape:
from the cave nor off the deck,
"This ship stops here now,
it's the end of the line,
We'll pull this ship over,
and take your last Dime."
Your last Burning Dime!
And from epidemic apportionment--
he'll ration your time,
keep you luke-warm, in fermaldehyde,
swept up, off the cement,
He'll cut you off and strap you down,
and vacuum package you, Howling Hound.
Beware!
Howling is futile,
as you'd not be a man--
as men can not howl--
they're preserved and canned.
