Sleep when exhaustion
spreads its arms to strangle you,
rage at the constant sway of worlds,
of words, letters sharpened, whetted
to a deadly edge, they will not hurt you.
Grief rises in the empty well,
and you piling stones,
making molehill mountains.
Pull bricks from the walls,
the gaping absence becomes footholds.
Climb stones, expose your feet,
cling with long nails of your toes,
they are not stigmata,
just another cross you have to bear.
Use it to hold your weight,
it’s all it’s meant to do.
Mass opiate, they smoke it
on the way to church on Sunday,
Monday, any day will do.
A speaker tells you how to live
while hidden ‘neath the pulpit,
a dirty soapbox carries him away.
Dream as the bells beckon,
your vision has more truth
than any laws made up by hypocrites.
Pundits smile in squares, rectangles,
getting larger with technology,
smaller with implants, you forget
and it sounds like your conscious.
There is no arbitrator, Jane was murdered
the day they found her making sense,
now the Cochlear whispering in your ear
says “KILL, KILL”, you will return a hero,
they’ll throw pills from the balconies,
leaving marks upon your skin
looking strangely like rough groups of sixes.
Sixes are lucky numbers, the double
trinity of hallucinogens you would not take.
When parades are over the chosen illegals
will sweep them up, into gutters
where the rats will drink the water.
But you, you take your liquids from a virgin bottle,
knowing always that the drugs don’t work.
© 2012 Rose Aiello Morales