Morning Paper

Those aren’t birds flying by

It’s the morning paper

from two days ago

Like my actions are

not the result or consequence of

a long swollen ego

but remnants of an immediate pain

If you were to claim them, who would be to blame

In this city we are spread out

We only communicate

through our traffic jams

It is this incivility

my addictions and your choices

that won’t define who I am

And my vocabulary is the singe on the meal

If I can not burn when I write then how the fuck can I feel?

And what would become of me?

What would become of you?

How can we construct authenticity

If we don’t have the tools

And it is our children next in line

We don’t have stars above us

Only low flying planes

Leaving us alone

We can’t afford to be zen

Only passive aggressive

with caller ID cell phones

We are so much more than the sum of our parts

There are rainbows that exist outside of our art

There are histories of love

and milk and honey

that predate our disposition

There are futures of passion

that exist beyond money

that will cater to your mission

It is only the morning paper flying past the window

It is only the morning paper from two days ago

And what you’ve been taught to be birds is hollow

It’s only a thirst you’ve been conditioned to swallow

And what will become of you

And what will become of me

And where else do we get our knowledge

if it’s on the only fruit on the tree?

And what do we feed our children because they’re next in line