To the young who want to die

Army ants of men
Hunted like the buffaloes of long ago
Stampeding in mass over the edge of cliffs
To find they aren’t ants at all.
They fall and blindly think of the blues.
Minds are shut tight as they hunt and moan.
As their leaking blood runs
Over Buddha, Mo and Christ and
The whole lot of stooges
Crying without apparent cause with
Pity for those who have ignored
The harsh tone of the over-soul.
The blue strikes back aimlessly
Until the dawn
Rises and dips in repetition
Vacuums in fears and dark cloaked things
Making uncensored noises in the night,
Noises that splatter the snow with acidic realization
Seen repeatedly
These tragedies bring my brain down to a purgatory
A sort of blue, in which
I hope I’m not alone.


Mass versus Potential

The size of the
Growth on your face
Puts the rest of you to shame.
I mean that mass that is your nose,
Your only point of interest.
Children stare bewildered the same as
Explorers who first saw Mount Everest.

Your skin is greedy
Because your muscles are unemployed.
Regions designed to be firm
Bulge in a jello explosion.
If ants had the ability to build surf boards
They would ride waves on the sea of your gut.

This blubbery layer
Would cause no offense
If there were something inside you worthy of protection.

So, how about you continue your meaningless meandering.
Don’t worry.
Eventually you’ll find your value
When someone sneezes
On the dust you’ve become.


Crash

A distant animal carcass mingle-mangled in the road getting closer.
Don’t look.
Soulless crows flock to feed off the killing.
Don’t look.
Yet that red piece of flesh dangling
From the jet black crow beak
Is unavoidable to the observant eye.
You looked
At flesh, red as any beasts.
Keep driving, stay on the road.
Death comes and goes. No worries. Not my flesh.

Metal mingle-mangled with meat instantly
Who’s to blame? Who will pay?
Why, God?
Go ahead, make God the scapegoat,
Or the justifier,
Whichever makes you feel better.
The crows swarm once more
Looking for their free meal.
Taking pictures and sending live feeds back to CNN.
A lingering voice pokes through the wreckage in the form of bumper stickers:
“No blood for oil”
“God Bless America (but not the other countries)”
“Peace… please”
Last scrunched up attempts for change.
Pecking cameramen miss the bumper stickers.
Magnify the flesh
While the rest of us continue down the superhighway.