"Written Life"

Sometimes poems are hard to find.
Laying on beds of newspaper, living the American dream
Dirty, Hungry, and blissfully ignorant.
Begging on street corners

"Can anyone spare some change I can believe in?"

The city paves it's streets in poetry
and there amongst all the trash
You will find her.
Thigh high fake leather boots,
Short skirt, chipped press on nails
Painted pink to match her lips.
Thick strong legs lead to child bearing hips,
and no one even stops or shoots her a second glance
Let alone give Poetry from the hood a fighting chance.

But to me she is as beautiful as the loveliest of Shakespearian tragedies.

It's in the smile of every exhibitionist executioner.
The uncertainty of a hung jury.
The echo of gavels crumbling mountains.
And right there in the courtroom
In front of god and everybody
Poetry lurks in the bargaining of pleas.

It's the suits and ties of businessmen
Ink jetted onto paper.
This printing press propaganda
Stained with communist blood,
A manifesto of the ages.

It's the smell of fresh paint
covering bloodstained walls.
The innocence of children lost in hallow halls.
It's the final point of punctuation
to an article about the middle east.
It's legs lost to IED's in an arms race to victory.
The splash of a 747 as it becomes one with the sea.
The remains of the occupants
and the courage of the search parties.
It's that closure that never really accomplishes anything.

It's Poetry
and it's my life.