This Land Is Your Land

as turf wars go here the weapons concealed before agendas revealed and courtyard orders sealed inside wetzel gooey goodness grand central its not maybe from the outside but inside the buzz is low the reverb high lingering as smoke choking on its own asthma void of cache or any semblance of the character chiseled into posts, ceiling festoons and the ethnic parades chanting in uniform grunts, silence and glares required vitals from their lost or stolen IDs it isnt Union Station for nothing a primal yack, spit and grin flowing from the cakes of baked commuters forsaked souls and a neighborhood watch that drools in adoration point a to point b (or c) never had an intermission like this then again here every director is the drama they wish they could coddle into love. (10/30/13)