we do the same
as we always do:
shop for groceries,
our kids' homework,
seethe with resentment
of our co-workers successes,
kill the rich,
put cut flowers on the table,
fuck our family members and friends
neighbors and total strangers,
Twitter and shovel snow:
live our faith
that the drunken rants
we pass off as prayers
will be answered;
that spring will return
and we will multiply
like bunnies
don't tell my son
that this is the kindling
of sentiment:
naked brown earth
infertile breeding grounds
a rathole
where once
I was obsequieous
to the head rat
until I left
fled through the darkness
drains and catacombs
through the forest
filled with hemophagous clouds
of insects
to this "castle"
my cobbled-together
homeland
for my progeny
who is ungrateful
as was I
and now he
he plans his escape
as he must
follow the scent
of electrostatic silicone
and newly-minted sex
wafting from a rat hole
not so very different
from the one we call home
random
carbon-based
effluvia
of the Big Bang
bastard children
of supernovae
cousins to the asteroids
on this dust mote
we call home
we strive to return
to our origins:
"I am become death
the shatterer of worlds"
Marc Thompson is a stay-at-home Dad in Minneapolis, Minnesota and he thinks he has the best job in the world. His poems have appeared in journals throughout the world and in cyberspace. He does not know how to fish.
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