open MIC

ok i'm so bad, there are two poems i want to write on this fair september night , moon just rising pregnant, water break immanent, veiled in clouds of grey and white across her black bed. it's the eleventh, when everything changed in the usa because safety became a cause d'affaire. safety uber alles, keep the homeland safe but there's no place to hide from good intentions. spread  democracy like clymidia you'll get reinfected with a drug resistant strain. good or bad, here's what i'm aware of : the god of war is us and we eat him. every bullet riddled suburb, every border crossing central american child, every vigilante posse, that jihadist walking with a severed head along a riverbank in idaho, each of these and more come from the game of guns we play , with ourselves if the Soviets are absent. another thing i know-there are always buyers.  that's the thing about money worship. the buck rules. the buck doesn't stop, it doesn't know how. anything for a buck. so if you even wanted, through some twisted sense of idealism, to eliminate weaponry, it couldn't happen. from the smallest razor to the largest anti aircraft missle, we loves our weapons. and we don't  want you to have them. unless you got a buck.  we'll take that buck and make a better one. so anywaze,thinking about the poems i wanted to write and i saw the date. so that's what THAT was about. now i don't remember the things i wanted to say. something about the trestle at lunch. something else about entropy and energy, how dark matter, already coalesced is straining at the seams, stretching me thinner and thinner
skin bruise at a scrape, taut flesh itches.  there is some freedom in the thought of winding down. no lawns to mow, weeds to pull. dogs to walk. not everyone lives an urban life, i wanted to tell her when she dissed my metaphor as quaint, as passe, as why can't you get your head out of the goddam mud woman and i realised that she and i do not live in the same worlds at all. in her world, trestles, if failing, get fixed. if a shim is needed, a check is written. there are no oxen in her condo or her county. she does not live in shri lanka. but someone does. so the metaphor stands. when i work, when i don't feel like a stripper being worked by a host of pimps, i feel exactly as dumb as the ox, whom i contend understands the whims of the farmer as well as i understand those of management. my metaphorical yoke fell off when my kids grew up. no one depends on my wages but my mortgage company.  why should i care if they get it? ahh but the straw is in the stable at the end of the day, the hot shower awaits at my pleasure. i hear the undersides of bridges are a bit short on facilities and i do like my comforts. this is why i'm not in the mood for your revolution. your jihad. your killing spree.
however i'm quite fine with you guys going over to your neighborhood to shoot of the fireworks i'll happily sell you because the boss put me in charge of getting rid of  them all. we'll make more.  got a buck?