We're all fresh bones
on a downward slide toward
sunken coastal homes
and time and tide pull
us toward empty tomorrows
and wave like wheat fields
and drunken stadiums.
When we miss the mark
we are not landing in
starry pools of promise
because people drained them
swearing to throw down
ladders that we could climb
but laughed and pointed as
we hung limp from the rungs
and whistled sorrow at
everyday pain that came
disguised as hellos but
smelled exactly like goodbye.
And I don't know the magic
or the art
I can't read the prose
or find the start
and Mexican radio used
to broadcast rebellion but
the airwaves are digital now
and the beating heart
of our once burning dreams
is stilled, becalmed as
the ocean with absent breeze
and painful as unfulfilled
needs or bended knees.
If I pull back my hair there
is so much white underneath
and if I search too long
I only find what everyone
else needs.
Pirate radio waves filled
with static speak for the dead
and for the spreading disease
but this isn't complaint, mind
just payment for the fees.
Fresh bones and broken dreams
fail to thrive in these
tired times and hollow
lines of coded insta feeds.
And tomorrow belongs
to the children we posioned
with endless noises
and glowing blue screens.
The ocean is closer
but it ought to just about
drown all the screams.