Email Poem

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Poem

There ain't no cure for me
There ain't no cure for anyone

There ain't no cure
for a society
based on
aesthetics

There ain't no cure
for a poem
that doesn't spill onto the page

There ain't no cure
for the subconscious
image conscious

We take common imperfections,
warp them into crippling deformaties.
Whe do we do this to ourselves?
Why are we so poor to ourselves?

Has this become
the only internal sensation
we can still envoke?

Have we become so stagnated,
the only feelings
we can foster
is self-loathing,
this anger
toward our own physical shell,
the satisfaction
of hating others?

There ain't no cure
for the tragedy of it all

Does this matter at all,
or am I just insane?

Does anything matter,
or are we all insane?

Are we mad from life,
or from lack of life?

There ain't no cure
for the contagious madness
from buses
from 80 year old grocery clerks
from Ronal Regan posters
from oversaturation
from vapidity
from turning tricks
from needles
from too many bad books

The mad driver
stomps the brake on the expressway.
Semis collide.
Radioactive sludge
splashes a bus of pregnant women.
Several months later,
mad mutant spawn
crawl to life.

There ain't no cure
There ain't no cure
There ain't no cure
for the tragedy of it all

There ain't no cure for time
Too short of time
Too long of time
Running out of time
Life's too quick
We wait too long
Too much time hating
Too much time sleeping alone

There ain't no cure
There ain't no cure
There ain't no cure
for lost time.

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