Poetry

I walk alone along streets full of people   
who attempt smiles for brief moments,   
before a man in uniform nudges them   
back on the circular race of deadlines   
consumption, and unfettered wants.   
  
They peek into my book of anarchist poetry   
in horror suprise and curiosity   
in language they do not understand,   
moving forward in shielded bliss.   
  
Me. A ghost tip-toeing down the skirmish line   
one foot in the orchestra of absurdity   
honking beeping yelling falling slamming   
chattering in the symphony of decline tumbling   
down artificially expired peaks;   
  
the other foot in utopia.   
  
-   
  
Cities can be terrible places.   
Where people choke on their own dust   
to keep their head above the smog line.   
The polluted watch helplessly as their   
self-worth wastes away like fluid trends   
in the breeze, ignoring those in shame   
who ask for a little, while fighting like dogs   
for a little more.   
  
Farms can be terrible places.   
Deserts of corn spreading past the sky   
beaten down by a hot dry sun   
for scraps bathed in pesticides.   
The screams of animals   
diseased and slaughtered unmercifully   
for rich men with throaty laughs.   
  
-   
  
The once great ones,   
who despite their serfdom   
maintain lost pride, die of cancer   
feasting upon their muscles   
of malnourished hearts   
coming to terms   
with the need   
to break free.