Friday, August 21, 2009

prayer for an american century

No working. No working
for love or money!
The pretty waitress leaned
over and asked, just
passing through?, and
doesn't she deserve better than this?
No more poems. No more poems
til they bear the fruit of living!
All the feats of language
come from advertisers anyway
and all these sons of Santa Clarita
have missed the worst and most
meaningful of life.
The trains rust on their rails
and we sing the song of separation,
forever and ever,
and ever,

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