February 16, 2011

...to see

her broken majesty...

Those days we made suffering
from frosted flakes of corn, mercy
from milk, and cracked our tongues
on long goodbyes.
You can't spell revolution.
The first lie is public service--
body, mind, and spirit isn't enough.
Coffee and cupcake warriors
still wrap dead fish in stars
and stripes. Do you remember
the warmth of rhyme? Hymns lost
in the garden? Drop your mothers
into the earth. Blood on bare wood.
Roots like worms.
It seems like
such a long
way down.
But why
do they
hate
us?
It's their world now, not ours.
There's no reason to panic.

3 comments:

The GE Daily said...

I like your poem very much. Nice fluidity, if that makes any sense.

Greg
thegedaily.blogspot.com

TheInvisible said...

Beautiful

yusuf said...

I love this one,
my favorite poem style ever ;)