The tired opinion will exercise influence

to the limit of a nation

a government means obedience.

Texas is still striking Mexico.

Wildly independent,

beautiful on ice

the present destruction

sank Americans.

Remember the support

which exists in European civilization.

Lawyers communicate the power

convinced the prince should

kick in unquestionably the fruit of politics.

Stolen

the moon

Torched tracks trip

man, wrapped, whipped,

numbered name trapped.

Back light flashes,

drained face dances,

eyes feared fools.

Marched, moved, pushed.

Trains transport judged,

whistles raise riots.

—————————-

produce         picked             packed

piled    praised         placed

promised        pickled            photographed

drained    garden    dusted

grated                         lock     displayed

safe  seeds  shaped

tired    tried    tumbled

rock     ruins   rents

housed           flowers           screwed.

Ok nothing matters really

because anything I write is totally mundane.

Decide for yourself

if it is worth travelling to the other side of this moon

to face me. I worn you though, beware, you will find

I’m a bone collector,

gathering the stories hidden deep within your veins,

I suck them out a long straw, draw all of the blood

from every inch of words you keep

on walls about to collapse,

my teeth ever hungry to dig

into the weight of your history and your dammed.

I weave around you

like Lucifer licking the meat from your brain

because mine is just too ordinary.

Bbbbbbut don’t be afraid

because nothing matters really,

anything I write is totally mundane.

And just when you think I’ve taken it all

I am simply diverted

by dried out bits

of dialogue with a character

who has no sense of the words

that float above the teleprompter

he has been placed in front of,

a Donald Trump type having a good hair day

I grab all his wireless fragments of frenzied messages

on Facebook to shove into the table of contents

of my next book of poetry

about a shooter with a semi

who walks into an airport

and the kid I support

who doesn’t know where his mother is.

But don’t worry because nothing matters really

everything I write is totally mundane,

stories become wild rice scattered

across a mine field where

the bones of the world are shattered

and I pick them like daisies to horde

for a stormy day

when the guy on the bus beside me smiles

because he has forgotten that he is hard of hearing

and the girl on his lap is listening

to his off key version of Bring Him Home

unaware that the bus driver just announced

he is taking a wrong turn

because he simply can

and we still don’t know if the kid I work with

has found his mother

and the tension rises and you want to cry

but I won’t let you

because come-on it’s just words

on a page that don’t signify anything

because everything is totally fucking mundane.

And it’s Friday night

and come to think about it

did we find the kid’s mother yet

his terror creeps between my toes

and I get itchy

wondering if I can make a difference

because we all have masks

just mine is solid, glued on so long ago

it has attracted rats around the edges

and the black iron cast frying pan

I use for noodles

has turned to brass and I wonder

if Robert Hass ever had any of these problems

did he lose his mom or words

and my words dddddon’t

count because the word count button is as broken

as a brain on fire

and I dance

and think Margaret Atwood

doesn’t dream like this

because she is not mundane.

Nnnnnnothing matters. It is all mundane.

A carrier pigeon to deliver bad news

has a broken wing and we found the mother

safe in Milwaukee on a runway in 40 below

and nothing I say matters

because a man with a gun turned into a maniac

and I sucked his bones dry too

and just because I can’t hold a bbbbb word in my head

for longer than a second or find the last word

I wanted to put on the page that was hiding behind

my desk draw full of the words I have lost

doesn’t mean his bullets will stop

and stay hidden because his brain

is a bit lost as well and nothing I say matters

because we are all mundane.