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There could be time
enough, and even
energy enough,
but the will stumbles back
into unrepairable
memories.
The lungs have inhaled
marijuana, and the
day is dark, moving like
a snail uphill in fog.
Everywhere there is
preparation for war ...
where the big countries
bomb the little countries.
The mall is full
of robots called American Consumers,
blind and dull
as door jams.
I forget where I parked my car,
and almost desperately
search one row at a time.
And I find my beat-up, ‘92 Ford Tempo
at the end of the 5th row.
Some days I can’t walk into a mall
without being overwhelmed by the
mentality of war.
There is something blatantly
ostentatious, something
bellowing greed and arrogance,
that disgusts me!
On other days I am better.
I can come with my wife shopping for family
and friends, and be a regular guy.
Yeah, it must be the ganga, or the gloomy
dark Oregon day,
as I speed down the freeway for
home, like an army deserter
running from the front lines,
and more than happy to be one.
(this poem first appeared in The American Dissident)
