there is a stepping stone
forgotten of a sergeant’s skeptics,
sinister on ice.
My ears belie to notice sticks and stones
beneath my feet–
a distance courting high regard to peasants.
We lower middle class.
We homes with rooftops.
We internet and phones.
We detached proletariat all sent off alone
to be the voices of our generation.
All of us.
And we will rise and be risen.
We will Christ at the godfearing heron
who looks pretty from a distance
until you get up close and see the dinosaur eyes,
the beak protruding in a snap.
No bird is more beautiful with faith on its back.
That shit should be cradled;
be grown from a seed and reach far to the sun.
The bird’s wings of wax do melt.
And furthermore, my goodness.
Buckle your seatbelt.
This ride is absurd.
These strings are coerced.
These dynamite districts are breached at the curb
where we deliver our groceries to old uncle sam
who disturbingly gives us 1200 dollars
so it looks like he gives a damn,
and retreat goes the serpent of bloodthirsty tears
upon longitudes, latitudes til the rusty saw shears
off the wool on our eyes.
Are you sick?
So am I.
I, the devil intrepid with worse often side
where the dreams intertwine, where the moon up and shines.
My insolent positivity is wrought with disease.
What is your excuse, sir?
You’re meant to be leading this half-breathing indium,
chemically balanced to spot out bullshit in silence
til the caption reads Yes
and the picture screams No
and we read up some silliness, delusions and so
by the power i yield with my language, i tell you:
get out of the blankets.