Tuesday, March 29, 2016

poem of the day 03.29.16

the trumpeter

there is too much death
the evening
under this milky blue sky
watching the walking carcasses
on fort hamilton parkway
slices of pizza on paper plates in the wind
a bag full of plastic junk
from the ninety-nine cent store
american flags billowing their counterfeit freedom
we do so much
in the march toward our own mortality
as the garbage swirls infinite
the trumpeter
he blows an off-key taps
in commemoration to all this dying
out of tune
he sits on a metal bench
potato sacked in a dirty hoodie
and ripped khakis
his brown mouth enwrapped
in a musical maelstrom of nonsense
as people walk by quickly
dropping copper into a twirling olive hat
caught up in the mendacity of living
a half-talent, the trumpeter
plays like a god to himself
as the dirt gets caught in our eyes
at forever red stoplights
cars honking orange angry faces full of disease
going home
always going home to die by the blue tv light
or the computer screen
that coward cancerous sun
hidden behind gray-yellow clouds
waiting for a break in the music
to rip forth and shine hazy illuminations
on those secret, glorious places
caught in between
the violet shadows
and heavenly black shade.


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