Tuesday, 28 October 2008

Wordsworthian Matrix

The boys are bouncing basketballs in the foyer
at lunch. Mothers watch daddy twirl one, stepping out of the math
not to lose the Viagra mortgage over a long haul
spilling over into whatever disaster is left for arguments.

Before the slowdown everyone and their butcher
was frenetic for a connection, not just salables
who feed us frenergy, garnering what we might be
had we been handed more than silver linings to fall through with.

Now, no matter how many flavors I’ve tasted
It’s not the same. The end zone is made of lime,
the soil moist with tater-bugs and possum droppings yields little,
pallid sprouts leaking back to earth illegally laced
undoing the slow genetics of glory days
before the law kicked in, patents lifting bodies from selves.

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