Jim Jones Could Sell the Air Back into Lungs

Tin can man dance.

Hear the machinery adjust to the steps.

More oil for the gears if he falters.

More air pumped into the lungs.

He’s got poetry tongues and venomous prose.

Spit it out in rusted bones.

Close enough to his breath and you’re oxidized.

Construct it piecemeal if it’s not enough.

Build a better practitioner of impatience.

Jangling metal’s alluring tune;

a myth of progress in robotics.

Faults for a day and rises in three.

Divinity achieved in glassy eyes,

and the glassed eyes watch and pray for a visit,

turned about in the factory floor.

Production goes for more years to come.

The ink never runs out for us.

They tap away on the screen.

Sell out for a knife or two.

Heretics abound with the wool over your eyes.


( ❤ Mitch)

there are no imperfections

I am the concrete sentinel of industry,

manufactured immaculately in Puritan fires.

No complaints from the head of the yoke.

Leave no admission of potential cracks.

I embody the failed experiment of masculinity,

stripped to be only metal and sweat.

Cut the throat’s sound in nervous episodes.

The world cannot hear a male’s scream.


( ❤ Mitch)

Everyone at the Dinner Table was Proud


scrawled across in cursive,

looping about

to wear as a false halo.

This is the pretense to wear

upon clipping your wings

for another leg up.

Deserved it all,

cast it out,

written it off.

No second looks.

Devils prowl for more prey

to sustain the food chain.

More untruths to sell

as a boy’s shove in youth

manifests its implication dangerously

until sprawled across in bold,

flashing all too brightly.

( ❤ Mitch)


Parched throats refuse to scream,

drinking the dust from craters,

watching the knives cut the blue out of the sky,

wrapping up the mushroom heads for the new bleak horizon.

Roaring treads is the dominant fashion trend,

parading through the common ruin of immolated dreams.

A stray bark and onlookers collapse on command.

Roll their bones to the floor to pave the path forward:

An infrastructure comprised of bleeding architecture.

And yet palms still stretch to rise above the wake of a ticking clock,

their pain on display, their eyes begging for storms,

a deluge to wipe the slate clean and knock the blades out of orbit.

Past stratosphere and stars,

an empty throne stares back with ambivalence.

Painted boards and battle cries

never pierce past blue screens,

but the reach of ignorance crosses over every deconstructed domain.

Find purchase in the soil to double down versus the trauma machine,

but it only needs a simple wave to pull hearts asunder.

The home that screams the loudest is the next to be demolished.

Fire, fire arching overhead.

Fire, fire straight into the lines

Fire, fire arching overhead.

Fire, fire straight into the lines

and blank out their eyes.

The march of empty feet still proceeds through the hail.

A procession files neatly into cracked wooden caskets,

as the ones lost to erupting cars find a funeral in the flash.

No justice to claim despite living under this cause,

where there’s a promise of hope and a promise of solace through nothing but faith.

But what of the ones with graves unmarked,

the stones set in place by those using your name?

Their limbs are cracking under layers of earth churned out by this machine,

fingers clawing to reach to the sky.

But past all of this fear and all of this loss,

past sermon and sacred and service and safety.

Past stratosphere and stars,

an empty throne stares back, ambivalent.

( ❤ Mitch)