in the house that father built

Not a crook, just a con man;

Selling us short for a few good coin. Nickel and dimes

Paired with death.

Water floodgates open.

Seizing like bearings,

Straight off the racetrack –

Getting off course

(of course)

The blue houses, built of scraps; scavenging,

Stretch a mile and a half long –

I have seen it for myself.


What is this system of stems ripped from the branches of office?

Where do we begin?

Do not take my damn towel –

We need the towel, the levees have burst

It seems we need

To pull the plug on this injustice.

Or reframe the picture.

Unfortunately there are no walls to climb,

Nor nails for which to hang

these pesky thoughts on

Where are we now? How much further to go?

I could shout to every ear what needs to be done,

I could whisper sweet nothings to seal the deal,

Would they commandeer the commandment?

Do they have ears?

ones that would listen?

Or am i just naive?

It can be done.

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