Coral, Morale and Scorn.

A thick grey sky paints
fiction frozen forest coffee.

Street lights hum in the
electric dawn. A yellow finch hops
for french bread.

No one else is awake.

The street lamps all just shot out
in sort of a uniform “calling it quits.”

Ambulances careen in the distance.

Where are they headed?
A drug overdose? Homicide? An elderly
accident? Robbery?

From here in my kitchen at dawn, it’s
hard to believe that there is any
trouble at all.

Easy to forget the struggle!
Easy to forget that we’re at war!

Which is why I like to read first hand
accounts of family members who lost
sons and daughters to the lie.

It’s because I’ve partly gone sane,
partly because I hang bed sheets from my
eyelids and sleep on a bed of questions.  Partly
because I think it is important to stay at
the edge of your seat. Never willing to
come down.  Never willing to talk about this
perpetual stain that burns up our spine.

And when we talk to strangers, whose
brothers and sisters do we see?

Since I’ve been reading, how many fire
trucks just rushed away from the station?

How many ambulances just made it back
to Rush Hospital?

From the laundry line, the burning houses cackle in
our lungs. We take our electrical dispositions
as an afterthought, and still the spirit hangs
over our burning houses.

In the dust bowl-melting pot
back alleys,
America lives as a symptom of irony.

We are a prescription of not wanting to look back.

Because if didn’t happen to me, than
it didn’t happen to you!

The great mantra
of our new generation.

Let’s put on a new attitude in exchange
for a new batch of war veterans.

Let’s start talking about Telecommunication,
about cognitive psychology, and quantum
entanglement.  Let’s have a conversation
about estrangement, derangement, and
displacement. Let’s have a para-teleconfrence!

Let’s tell our congress that we’re coming home!

Because I read on the web this morning that
Halliburton just went belly up. The article went on to
mention that Barclay’s had no one else to lie to.

(except themselves.)

The money launders ran out of
percentages, their capitalistic ideology
was revealed to be a
corporate-utilitarian collective think tank.

So change your bank, change the way you
thank yourself and the people who
don’t know you.

To all the mothers and fathers:
tell your friends that it is all bad news.
Give them hope, and hope that they’ll
see you are lying to them.

So hold their hands, hold fire in
your hands. Let that fire in your heart
hold on to bad news.

Keep it warm.
It is okay to feel bad about this.

Another ambulance passes, another
prescription for Welbutrition just
traded hands.

The idea is that we can be comfortable
but we can’t be happy.  We can be fascist,
but we better not be sharing stories.

There is a war of the gods happening
right now. Over the loudspeaker, over
our proud Marines.  The
Human-Terrain-Systems
are working according to plan.

The standard operating procedures of our
minds are being grafted onto artificial
intelligence.

So improve your efficiency, because you can
bake bread, but you cannot shave seconds
off your car insurance with another
twenty bucks a month.

In a lens we warble, in the lens of your
eyes. With your ears, marble statues are
being torn down.  In the wake of
another fire truck

wait long enough.

Help yourself,
help your neighbor.

And don’t forget to
take care of your
personal savior.

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