Cold Dead Hands for a Cold Dead World

There was always the question in my mind
When my mothers claimed such of me
As one whom had stories to tell
True stories, or some of them true
Some were whole lies concocted with a syrum of truth
Some were made by recipes of quarter cups and jiggers
Flour on the cutting board
A clink of glasses overhead
The eyes of elegance peering down from the faces of lumberjacks and businessmen
Flashy redress in trashy red dresses undressed of any and all but stop sign red, her caress is.
Cutoff, at the knees, my shpants billow in the sloppy wind
Atop le crevasse
And clocks time in the sky lids
Chimes in a new year with blue beards
Heart read a newspaper article I once wrote for The Times, I had spoken to The Globe in fifty-two, nothing came of it, I was blacklisted, The Post wouldn’t even speak to me. It was like a bad joke, and it was on me. Nobody knew at the time. I mean officially, no one knew. I’m sure, ’cause they told first. Listen to me, you don’t get a reprieve in this life, you don’t get a rebuttal. Listen, kid, listen to an old kid like me- it ain’t worth it
Go out and buy yourself a gun,
And when you come to see the madness of this world,
And you come to stand your ground
The ground that Washington fought for-
The fortune that your forefathers fought for-
And knowing only violence as the only option,
You took away that which was surely most evil to our futures
Or for the sake of good
For pitysake
And birthed our destroyer
By the act of destruction
Amidst the smoke and fire
Mirrors in the ashes
The Procession of The Ages
The Foundation of our past worked together to crumble themselves in hand to sand
Amid this display of carnage you ascertain nothing but to conclude violence with violence and with a blast- into forever-
and forever black again.


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