they spur us on with mock encouragement.
a goal like a carrot
dangling like a participle right before our eyes.
and the tragedy and the misery
and the waylaid things
and the guilt they bring
storm around inside.
and the light that hides just seems to bind
when i can not make it shine.
but, 'on,' they scream,
'you must go on!'
they will not let it go.
i guess the mud doesn't seem such a bad place to rest
when you can't seem to lift your head.
so we strive for some vague representation
of something we saw on t.v.
and the time just ticks away.
so look at us now . . . they're selling us war!
pick it up at the most convenient store.
and now no one is paying attention.
forcing it on unwilling consumers
flooded the vast spectrum of media with rumors
these weapons of mass destruction
are one big fucking mass distraction
and look! there's no one paying attention.
we've all turned our heads
in some middle easternly direction
a more reasonable enemy than our own fucking poverty.
but don't speak now, for we have not the time.
but be quiet.
and so we set sail
to murder ourselves
as the majority disagree.
and we fumble around in our pockets
and shift our eyes to the sidewalks
and step over cracks and break our own backs
for our orange and coveted prize.
but who gets the laugh when we all realize
our surprise was just death in an edible disguise
and a grave is a grave, regardless of whom it holds?
'on,' they cry, and 'on,' they cry,
so shuffle, and sigh,
and avert your eyes
from the light that hides
and will never shine
on anything we do
until we forget these disgusting concepts
of death as a path to the truth.
excuse me. i've more vomiting to do.
I wrote this poem in 2003 just prior to the 2nd Iraq War.
I am both saddened and amazed to see that nearly 15 years later, nothing has really changed.