There is an uneasy truce:
He wields the razor,
I pay the tip.
I’m not going to argue the absurd, argue
That things are bad or going to get better.
We live in an age of immutable belief shaped
To write is to argue without evidence that beauty
pervades: the rainforest and the killing field,
sunsets and floods of acid rain on I-95.
I notice my parents’ aging as I do my own:
Not at all, then in a photo, all at once.
When I leave, his sadness is simple:
He loves me here, close enough to sniff.
To him I am fragrant of complete love,
What if poetry were as recognizable to the general public as commercial jingles (The best part of waking up, is Folger’s in your cup), pop music, or celebrities?
We can never atone for the billions
spent on dark dreams
sawed through with ease,
There are epochal battles blazing around the world,
Blinding to those who look, shrapnel of noon-day sun
In the concerned citizen’s eye.
I came of age when computers, and then the Internet,
Came of age, magic I could partake of
Unlike the alcohol of the adult world
Whose pleasures jaundice the once-idealistic.
Would you murder
For the sake of the orphanage?
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