Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Stale air, stale thoughts


There’s no subtlety around here,
though much is left unsaid.
We all have mallets like the white-wigged judge
and we hammer, hammer, hammer
our point in deep,
little blows that don’t knock you down,
just bite behind your ears like blackflies,
chip off pieces so tiny
you don’t notice
at first.

The fax machine beats us all
to the punch. Hot off the presses!
Stacks of transmission reports reading
Failure, Failure, Failure.

1 comment:

Dorkmaster Flek said...

Don't worry about the fax machine. It's just jealous that it can't write poetry itself. :)