The Storm

A storm brews along the horizon, beneath the ozone holes and ultra-violent daydreams and the nightmares force the night sweats to cool the engine of the night train upon which we ride and smile, ride and smile, ride and smile and smirk and snarl and sneer at the princesses and princes, pretty people with the animal tested faces who scorn the vagabond with the strap-on society fucker and who breathes in the winds of the impending storm and is warmed from the core by microwaves of greenhouse gases and gasoline made with corn so that it burns clean in a sky tie-dyed with blue die number five and six and seven and eight and nine: How’d I get so lucky to be alive with ten fingers on ten triggers and I figure if I had ten heads I’d pull them all.

Instead I grab my head, pull my hair, cry and scream, “Get me outta here!”

My Nike’s hold hostage the sweat of a child’s labor, carrying me through the carnivorous streets that stretch across this Great Land like track marks on the surface of dying flesh. From Dark-Starbucks to the Great Wal-Marts of China, progress is measured in homogeneity and the pace with which cultures are robbed, raped and replaced with corporate ladders and cancers and nothing else that matters is how we define our success.

That’s because my Uncle Sam is a vulture and my Mother Earth cries as he taxes her sore feet and back aching from the weight she carries and the HMOs say, “We can’t help you today. Our plan doesn’t cover your sorrow or your soul, which we let you borrow until we decide to take it back. We’ll let you know.”

But my Uncle Sam the vulture tried to steal my soul with three-eyed Phish tours on dope lures and a fraction of theft so that he could get by granting hard and wicked times where men get rich selling water and buying time before the lightening strikes.