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Poem

It happens to be that we all perceive
in a grand allegiance never brought into question
as though the clocks have been frozen
giving us all tock subtracted from tick
and Change the poster child has a gun to its head
in the hand of an empty headed juvenile
a caricature with an imagined context
an exfoliated ideology digging its own grave
shouting all the patented paternal virtues
pulling the dirt over its face with a shiny shovel
compulsively polished to a mirror sheen
reflecting no basis in fact whatsoever
no penalty whatsoever for failed interpretation
existence itself an abstraction of the mind
and its endlessly wagging untrue tongue
if anything an inconsistent flightless avian
the suffocating confinement we call tradition
trapped in a charade that cannot be spoken of
by a silent and entirely unanticipated mule kick
applied with a certain malevolent degree of purpose
grinning like it was an intimate family joke
bred enough mistrust to set a house on fire
spending the rest of my life playing with matches
wondering what the state of all states might be
trying not to confuse supposition with detection
with the unseen mystery rope pulled taut
according to chronically uncertain eye witnesses
but role playing is encouraged for this farce
as is a tighter antipathy to deviance
blurring the lines on the road to certainty
with an unregulated quantity of rectitude
being that knowledge is the past long and short
unlike a world where the new is actually new

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