Where is the bottom
in this hole black?
Do we plumb its
depth before we fill it with chaff?
Do we climb
laboriously down while furiously fighting against gravity?
Do we pour our grief
into it and flood away the stench with our tears?
I am kicking and
scratching as I am led to its precipice, everyday
I hear the cries of
the millions inside, some piteous, others angry
I see the young men
above shove lead and strangle the angry ones
with muscles of
aspiration and veins popping with patriotism
I see the older men
above spit promises into the pit, a few throw down opiates
The pit lies like a
blister within the airconditioned plastic garden
With plastic azaleas
blooming upon wax branches and neon lights
that simulate the
sun that lies occluded behind mushrooms of cloudy dust
