As the waitress in the coffeeshop warned you,
the trendy people have tongues of vipers,
the snake, not the automobile,
that twist words to tailor their lies
around their computer-generated poses
The rich have daggers that plunge
with warm rivers of blood into your spine
their reputations built on stolen goods
The Establishment has towers of plush luxury sofas
and windows of glass,
reflections of illusion, a con game
and armies of mindless soldiers carrying briefcases,
moats of swamps named "job" and "career"
to halt you when you approach their skyscraper gates
layers of walls to climb, impossibly high,
to impede your flow,
to drain your energy and cheapen your soul
and sap your body of enthusiastic life
of the golden dreams of naivete. . . .
(An excerpt from the poem "Warning" in my brand new poetry zeen, Hot Poetry. E-mail me for ordering information.
"Walt Whitman on speed." --Tom Hendricks.)