Sons and Daughters

Posted: January 18, 2012 in Burn Poetry
Tags: , ,

We are the sons and daughters of pioneer souls,
Standing at borderland’s edge with our eyes full
Of the western horizon.
Buffalo free.
Buffalo strong.

Cottonmouthed whispers carry cottonmouth venom
And fangs pierce like the howling January wind.
The stubble of chopped corn lays roughshod,
Frontier Morse code,
A Five O’Clock shadow at a quarter past 6.

Our eyes on the dangling moon,
Midnight anesthesia,
Prairie mud lapping at untied laces of sneaking sneakers,
The future entices
With opiate promises
And boozy half-truths
To be sifted through like river mud;
Gold rushing for facts.

Tracking, stalking, treading, stealing
Pickpocketing time,
Writing blank checks
With scribbled signatures and grandiose flourishes,
John Hancock in 140 characters or less.

The suits and ties,
Lawsuits and lies,
Nooses curving round our necks like the corporate ties that bind.
Kenneth Cole looped in a hangman’s knot.

The waves are breaking.
Slamming icy cold and gun-metal gray around us,
A human coastline
Pockmarked with erosion.
The lost. 
The undertow gnaws hungrily at our ankles
Growling seafoam succubus.

We dig our feet in.
Buffalo free.
Buffalo strong.



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