Saturday, August 07, 2010

Poem in Mourning

Weary as an old plow,
dulled blades from too many rotations,
rusty red,
Death looms on every channel.
Don't they ever tire of the swords?
Slicing brains like so much red meat,
cleaved in the womb,
No blood, just catsup, to give it that
all American flavor.
Savor It
is what we have made it, gourmet
served with
bitter herbs and ginger,
under headstones
made of ash.

ⓒ 2010 The Unknown Candidate

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