Quarter to Five

Quarter to Five

I am done for this day, the thinking on points of production

I guess I will resign my manhood into the flaccid folds of poetry

As if this isn’t thinking with a purpose

There fore it is irrelevant and a target for ridicule from this business world

Of men with their machines and tools and endeavors to conquer

Pathways and rationalize the extraction of that mechanism of glee

And stationary exaltation of a mind being in a foreign location to the body

The grip of fingers and toes to the hardened surface flay limp

Like numb stock numbers that do not compute in the check out computer

Of a manufacture’s warehouse data base to be shipped or processed

For God’s sake to have something accomplished with an injunction

Where profit can be sneaked in or packaged or injected

And it can become manly like a weapon of wielding to counter act

This blind ignorant cloud in spasms expanding and proliferating

Its angst filled complacency across the universe of this constitutionally

Mandated employment by the bill of mortgage rights

Of the debt that must be paid to live freely as one nation under debt

I give you the blood for the electronic withdrawal as if I never put it in

And you never take it out, we can just pretend it is something frivolous

Like federal or state taxes to be used in a shell game that is never stacked

In ten dollars bills in front of a human pair of eyes, with Ben Franklin cackling

No it is a manifestation of charity and greed wrapped

In an American hot dog eating contest, binge as many and don’t forget to soak the buns

The lovers are coming in vans like Woodstock to see the suck-down

I remember yesterday mustard was a bitter pickle and today air is fine

What is the differentiation to such accoutrements? an additive to improve the flavor

Of cow pancreas or pork lung churned into a tube casing is still a factory farm

Antibody-riddled carcass creaming into my esophagus

Take this day away I can not give you productive here.  I resign my manhood

On the door step, call me a vegetarian pussy writing poetry

Lamenting with Ray LaMontagne with the trouble in the room

And I have this head and these fingers and this desk and blood on the floor

Bled out and un-noticed so I think it is time to go,

I wish I would have remembered to grow some spinach for a salad before all the bees were exterminated in the great pesticide war of 2013