Poem #77

As the bite of ingrown hair (the freedom of diddly)…

for William S. Burroughs

The autumn air was, unusually, warmer this year.
A pundit of political science had so much sustenance
rhetoric with public opinion bleared into a back alley for fear.

Pleasing the pressing populace,
politicians are pushed onto a stage to sweat
out of their pores salt with excitable expectations,
out of their pores sheds white puss with wild hallucinations,
white puss which welcomes earth with wishes of grandeur,
white puss will end world conflict and be a savior,
worldreels will read: World conflict caught and finally tried as a criminal…
which excruciates into ill illusions of inevitability resting in an asylum,
somewhere–swimming with sewage beyond the bathroom sink.

If a sentence were to preference its tense,
then it, most certainly, favored for future.

Townie thoughts think little in any nithing syllable
that took time to treasure and talk of a spent second,
as if it were a tale, needless to scratch out all substantial stuff
for a sweet summary.

An extractor removes a frizz of a follicle from its land of leisure
in a kingdom of royal bright bumps beneath a bearded chin.
As the bite of ingrown hair from a valley of dead skin
was the assessment of a ballot, blameworthy in its registered write-in.
And the follicle investigated in frightened to frenzy says, “my name is pain!”

Quite similarly to the metal tool for infected skin,
some counter of contest’s calculations
removes radical roots of electoral equations,
as to simplify monsters of replications,

or to put it bluntly, the alumni of the electoral college are proud to feature
the new budding graduates of this year’s graduations
and welcome them into our celebrations.
Yet popular people, a majority forming outside our gated lawn, and eager
to share in our libations are too poor in our affiliations
and are unable to attend this or any other year’s elections.

And all was quaint
when well-wishers turned on their televisions,
when year-rounders tuned to evening news at five,
and felt freedom in using their terminals at the awaited day
and felt freedom to determine diddly
and knowing that their freedom of diddly was in more capable hands
gave thanks when preparing their prayers around trans fat.

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One thought on “Poem #77

  1. “felt freedom to determine diddly.” I like it, a lot. There’s so much diddly these days. I think I’ve understood what you’re saying, and I love it.

    Liked by 1 person

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