Matthew Bass
Nomad
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.
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