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Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Late Night Poetry

As a tramp in a suit wears his tie affixed with rope
so do I craft a hangman's noose 'round these boondocks
posing as confidante and counselor
in courtrooms, conference rooms, backrooms
where tongues will wag
and speech be crafted legalese

I wonder what the days would be like
if I didn't have the night to recollect them on
probably they'd be endless and dull
boring into my eyes as my fingers now do in the dark
attempting to push away flash-backs

Those faces, those meek, poor, huddled masses yearning
for what? Not a shore, not a refuge
they want nothing but something
something, I wish I knew what
so I tell them corporate lies
well-practiced from overuse
well-oiled by bloodied coworkers
and they eat them up with a spork
catching the droplets with a calloused palm grip
smiling, "thank you sir, you're my savior"

Just call me Jesus

No wait, call me never
my name's not a prayer, my profession ain't exorcist
I don't do demons, I can barely handle my own
besides, I'm Jewish, so why don't we just eat bagels and call it even?

Meanwhile, you can keep dying
so I can stay employed
and we'll pretend this is a fine thing
for human beings to be doing

But before I go back to the shadows of my dingy hotel room
one thing, last thing, I promise this is the thing...
what was your name again?
I can only remember your number, for some reason
it must be because it matches my ancestor's Holocaust number

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