this lamb, this love, this dam, this dove, above the earth
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if this is shifting plates, like skates dance,
rant and rave; my glove is off to touch your face,
but lists so wistful sit
like knacks and knicks
on shelves with books and other things, which
brings me to a simmer (brushing off my lucid glimmer) and reaching out
like ghandi to salt
making sure i'm well--i'm feeling fine,
and mine are yours and yours are mine.
we haven't got what locks have stopped,
hiding fear and shame behind the blame on others' sins;
god can't keep track of
lack of common sense.
it isn't rocket science but it is The Life
and The Life is smooth, like cement walls
with falls of velvet to cover the cold,
the lover of old, whose voice is ice and quickly melting,
knitting, felting new lies to spew
over me and you. for what to do after truth is out?
for the fourth time we shout,
"we know this speech by heart!" we leech the words like little birds
whose words are songs, it won't be long
until the nation speaks
in simulation the paper slip
that senate sips for breakfast.
what's last is only what hasn't been spoke,
the toke of america on the high of lives,
the burning flesh of soldiers left, and the death of
innocence back in iraq:
those lambs, those loves, those dams, those doves,
in puddles of tears thanks to my four-year friend--
it's almost the end.