grey grass
mere nuclear wasteland
they call it a holiday
and go outside
bundled
roaming the streets in their pajamas
as though sleep walking
stepping over trash
feces
everything but others
as the dead are swiftly swept
from the streets
they call it a holiday
beneath the skull of a cop is stone.
he sits, staring, waiting for you to
move: to have the wrong facial exp
ression, to be sea
ted in the wrong position (weight
on the wrong ass
cheek)
and then he stands up, slowly, noticing
your criminality.
casually, he walks at any speed
he pleases, and begins the triviailty
of conversation which ends always
in the same way:
cement box.
he laughs about the game last night
with his friends while you sit in
the back of his car, which is always on,
losing your wits and your “savings”
and your life.
he shines his flashlights in your eyes,
inquiring into your soul with his long
stone gaze,
slowly paging through your mind and
your posessions, taking interest in
what he pleases,
fining you for what displeases
the fools on capitol hill,
laughing indescriminately at your
last free breaths.
yes,
beneath the skull of a cop is stone.
his pupils work tirelessly on the
unsuspecting public,
just trying to get where they’re going
to do what they want
often times hurting no-one but them
selves,
maybe the futures of their future
children,
and he wants to steal your vitality
to fill his quota. as long as he is here,
he figures,
he might as well get you if he can.
he might as well get the ones that no
one wants to see gotten and not get
the ones everyone would like to see
gotten due to lack of evidence/effort.
beneath the skull of a cop is stone,
and in the place where his heart
should be there is a fucking piggy-bank.
oink
oink.
Record breaking
Back breaking
Shoveling driveways
Walkways
Throughways
Doorways
No way can there be this much.
Seventy-plus inches of snow,
More on the way,
And spinal surgery by age thirty.
Global warming, my foot!
Here’s an inconvenient,
Or maybe convenient truth
Depending on how you look at it:
Al Gore is a liar.
the tank parked in the driveway
tells a story that we know too well
but parties on a Friday night
just seem to swing and swell until
the house’s beams burst through the seams
and timmy’s lost but there’s no well
and we can’t hear the shouts and screams
so turn the tables up a bit
the tank’s been idling all night long:
I guess we’ll never call it quits
