The business of being unborn

The bus,
That salmon of metal made to push people around
People to lazy to drive,
People that become the guts
People to work, smash themselves in to get home
Making their day just 20 minutes more miserable. A
War happens, one the will never celebrate a
Victor.
There is a war of smell
A war of attitude
A war of politeness
A war of wars
All of the airs and clothing do not save inches between the homeless and lawyers. Dirt moves unhindered.
The battlehymn is Take Me Home, but the battle cry is capitulation,
Smooth and easy like the handsome
Like a rose in a windowless room.
There will be a constant shove from behind, such as life itself.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s