Without reason I return letters
to sender entitled RE: Son.
Cursing innovation... that
hostile, bastard child of tradition
who wields words as weapons,
welding cold steel to paper as
fingers nervously turn the pages;
eyes find each line like a trigger.
If prepositions could pistol whip
to hold the students attention
instead of elitists debating over
the thought of a thesaurus
as being something prehistoric,
then we'd have hands, not heads
filled with erasable lead and
the butt of a gun will be nothing
more then a subject predicate.
*Editors note: The printing press is dead.
We've burned all the better quotes.
I hoped when the ink dried we'd
have died to this way of thinking,
but my stomachs in 'nots' criticizing
blind usage of such intricate plots.
Gut wrenched that you monkeys
are using pens and pads to bang
hungrily on pots and pans ever since
readers digest got an appetite!
You've tied you're own noose
but doubtfully hung upside down.
Now drown in loose leaves or
breath a sigh into blank sheets
as a subtle sign of relief for
feet buried silently in the clouds.
Before concrete thinking comes to
cement heads to the ground.
To be honest, you'll go unrecognized
because journalists are more
concerned with politics and society
then the way a dead poet writes.
Understand?
(or should I impart my parts of speech;
debrief literature, literally?)
Hmm?... Obviously knot.
We'll continue lynching ourselves to the top.
